My Brother's Keeper
by Infected with Lupinus
Summary: After the explosion, sinister forces are hunting an amnesiac Peter.  One is an angry superpowered sibling who expects retribution for a certain death he played a part in.  The others are less obvious to him but far more deadly.
1. Issue 1

**Author's Note:** Before you begin, I'd like to mention a few things, first being that this story was started back in June. It is an ironic, prophetic coincidence that I created a character named Elle, only to discover a few short months later, that there would actually be a cannon Elle. Even stranger, both my Elle and cannon Elle are tied in with Peter. I am curious as to see if they end up down the same path, as I wrote the ending of this story prior to hearing about cannon Elle. Just call me The Isaac Mendez of the Printed Page! Also, despite the fact that this is a completed story, I will be posting chapters as I find the time to finish editing, them. Another thing I like to point out beforehand is since this was written prior to the Comic Con Season 2 preview, my Sylar storyline obviously renders this AU immediately. Plus I tweaked the Season 1 finale slightly to better fit into this story, as you will see when you read. Lastly, I put a fair amount of inside things for _Heroes_ fans to pick out as a game of sorts (the most obvious being Elle's Versa but there are others which will be less conspicuous). Fans of my other work will see another side of me in this story but I hope it is enjoyed by everyone. Above all, I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it! I'm surprisingly nervous about releasing this one to the public! Nevertheless, without further ado, I present the first chapter of _My Brother's Keeper_…

-----------------

"We are not only our brother's keeper; in countless large and small ways, we are our brother's maker."  
--Bonaro Overstreet

**My Brother's Keeper**  
**by: Infected with Lupinus**

Prologue

"Cut!"

The director bellowed and instantly the stilled commotion surrounding him, the same tumult around Grace Moriarty, snapped back to life like a light bulb at the sound of a buzzer and brightened dim lights.

"We'll need to take it again from the top, Grace," Connor Fleming, the current hottest director in Hollywood – something he never let anyone within earshot forget – told his star. "It just wasn't right."

"Of course it _wasn't_ _right_, Connor," Grace restively snarled, leaving her male co-star on the set to sit in her chair. "It's the fifteenth take, my patience is wearing thin today and nothing is going right because I'm running high on PMS. Let's get it right the next time or move on to another scene, please."

Her tone was intentionally snappy and she sensed the others around them cringing or ducking for cover. The haughty director and his refractory star were always engaged in bitter power struggles and this was one more brewing.

"You _know_ I'm a perfectionist, Grace, so we'll take it from the top, even if it's for the thousandth time, is that clear?"

Grace seethed inwardly. Working with Fleming was not her favourite choice. After a recent and ugly fallout with her agent and the movie studio she was under contract with, other directors refused to touch her for fear of her wrath.

_Fleming and I are too similar, that's the trouble_, she thought. _We both take no shit._

Her make-up artist fluttered towards her, as usual, to fuss over touch-ups but she was bitchily waved away; the woman kept walking as if she hadn't been thwarted. Then Grace's assistant, one of the few people the star ever paid attention to, addressed her.

"Miss Moriarty! Miss Moriarty! There's a phone call for you."

"Tell them I'm busy right now."

A second make-up artist was brave enough to approach and touch up her eye shadow.

"I think you _might_ want to take this," the assistant persisted. Then in a near whisper: "It's a police detective!"

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it."

"_From Manhattan!_"

This grabbed Grace's interest like a sour note during a symphony.

"_Manhattan_?" she repeated, clearly concerned now. She reached out to take the mobile phone, demanding edgily, "Give it. I can only imagine _what_ it could be."

Her assistant, a sweet young thing named Anna who was too tender for Tinseltown but too saavy to not be sought after, handed off the phone and walked away in one fluidic motion.

"Hello?" she spoke into the phone in a tight tone.

"Hello, is this Grace Moriarty?"

She listened with mounting curiosity as the police officer spoke to her. Quiet the entire time, she allowed the one-way conversation to sink in, absorbing each word like a sponge. She got so full from the words that were being relayed to her that she felt like vomiting. But the cop continued to tell her more of what she did not want to hear even after the sponge could hold nothing else.

"Are you still there?" the officer questioned on the other end of the line. "Hello? Miss Moriarty?"

"I'm still here. I'm listening. I will be there as soon as I possibly can."

Disconnecting the line, she sat motionless for a brief moment, shocked by the tale that was told to her. It _couldn't_ be true. She _refused_ it to be true.

The surrounding lights flashed a few times, prompting everyone to glance up and around them. When they settled calmly back to normal everyone simply returned to work as if nothing happened.

_This _can't_ be happening!_ thought Grace. _This is a joke! It _has_ to be! I'm far away so he's playing a prank on me because we've lost touch for a while! That's what it is! I'll give him a call and things will be fine…after I yell at him incessantly!_

Convinced that her perception may be the answer, she rapidly dialled the number she wanted with shaky fingers.

The lights grew exceedingly bright as she waited and people around her complained. Fleming announced that it was probably a bad circuit, not to panic.

"Hello," a smooth male voice said on the other end of the phone.

"Hey, it's Grace!" she spoke rapidly. "I know it's been a long t-"

"I'm not at home at the time…"

Her heart sank when she realised that she was talking to a machine.

"_Goddamn_ it!" she swore, heart sinking with an ill feeling and eyes welling up with tears. "This can't be happening. Please, God, don't let this be happening!"

The lights brightened further then the bulbs, too hot to contain the ample current, exploded. A rain of shattered glass fell upon the shrieking cast and crew as Grace choked back her surging emotions. She knew too well what was possible when she was upset. Anger coursed through her tingling body then she felt the tickle of the familiar electric charge as it passed over her eyes and hands, sending smoke spiralling from the hot mobile phone that she dropped smouldering to the floor. Melted indentations in the phone where her fingers had been reached the circuitry inside, ruining it entirely. Someone called for her out of the midst of the chaos, disrupting the power that threatened to unleash itself from within her. It was Anna who suddenly appeared at her side.

"Are you OK?" the girl inquired. "None of the glass cut you, did it?"

"No," Grace retorted in a calm voice that was as rigid as steel. "I'm fine."

"What's the matter? Is everything all right?"

"No. Tell Fleming that I needed to leave. I won't be back."

Anna grew frantic upon hearing this announcement.

"_What?!_ He _isn't_ going to be happy to hear that! You _know_ how he gets…"

"I don't care. I have more important things to tend to."

"OK…then if you won't tell _him_ what's going on, please tell _me_."

"My family…My brother…my mother…are dead."

"_Oh my god_, Miss Moriarty I'm _so sorry_!"

"Moriarty?" she repeated the name that sounded suddenly foreign as it rolled off of Anna's tongue. "No. It's Gray."

She left the set with determination in her step and lightning throughout her body.

-----------------

"Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero."  
--Marc Brown

Chapter 1

At the beginning of time rebel angels fell out of the sky after Archangel Michael cast them from Heaven. Since then many things have followed their wake. A meteor fell and destroyed nearly all prehistoric life, bringing about an ice age. Stars collapsed from the sky and were the centre of many superstitious wishers' dreams. Ash rained from the sky in a sinister preface to the ruin of Pompeii.

Elle Miasnikov liked to sit or walk alone on the banks of Brighton Beach, thinking about everything and nothing simultaneously. She favoured walking as she faced Coney Island because the bright neon and the landmark Wonder Wheel were accentuated in the dark. Sometimes, particularly in the summer, scattered groups of older teens or young twenty-somethings held parties on the beach or she happened upon another lonesome soul trudging along the sand in the opposite direction she'd be going in. Often she would smile or give a friendly but curt nod in passing but nothing more than that. It _was_ Brooklyn, after all.

Since it was cooler by the water she carried a practical blanket to stave off the chill. This was her quiet time and she did not want it disturbed by needing to fetch a jacket from the car. Her wandering thoughts contemplated why Superman would need his Fortress of Solitude when all he had to do was journey to the beach at night to find peace. The only sound at this point was the steady crash of waves bashing themselves against the sand, spraying up into white foam in some parts. Suicide was never more beautiful.

On a whim, she removed her trainers and allowed the ocean to rush upon her feet, ankle deep and soaking the edges of her jeans. It felt great, as if Neptune hid a worshipful foot fetish. Smiling, she stopped to squish her toes into the silt which felt even better than the water alone. Therapeutic, soothing. She smiled, closed her eyes and turned her face to the heavens, relishing in the cool, gentle breeze that carried the salty stink of the water.

That cool, gentle breeze inexplicably grew tepid and more forceful. Something tickled her face and she swiped at it, dismissing it as a gnat. Then the air became a hot, steady gust that caused her to at last open her eyes. Ash fluttered down like a hellish snowfall and she extended her hand inquisitively to capture some flakes which she smeared across her palm in a sooty streak.

"What the hell?"

She looked back towards the sky to find something emerging through the darkness. Bright but not twinkling, she knew it was no star. Nor was it a comet, unless there was some certain oblivion that was arriving unannounced to the world. More than likely it was a meteorite. And it seemed to be heading straight for Brighton Beach.

"What _is_ that?" someone asked beside her.

A pair of kids no more than fifteen, a boy and a girl, stood beside her. The girl appeared terrified, the boy curious as if he was witnessing the best thing ever.

Elle shrugged, replying, "I don't know."

The atmosphere around them electrified, the gust transformed into a gale that was hotter still in temperature.

"Let's get out of here," the girl urged, trying to leave and tug the boy with her.

"She's right," Elle agreed. "Maybe you should leave."

"No way!" the boy defied, eyes as wide as saucers and focused on the approaching meteorite. "Let's go tell the others! That thing's headin' right for us! We can go take a look at it when it crashes!"

"No you're not, Tommy!" the girl protested but followed him as he broke into a run to retrieve their friends.

Elle's eyes never left the meteor. The temperature increased so that it burned her eyes but still they never strayed from the falling object. The ground rumbled and shook with its advancement, the air rippling. Seconds later with a swoosh that felt like a rocket racing by and an exploding boom that wobbled the ground beneath her feet and set off a bevy of car alarms, the object struck land.

Blazing fire and black smoke loomed at the point of impact but instead of retreating Elle found her legs taking her toward ground zero. She had no idea why, nor did she waste time questioning it. She decided to do what gut instinct dictated, her tightly clutched blanket streaming behind her like a superhero cape. There was no telling what awaited her once she reached her destination and she frantically hoped that whatever she was compelled to pursue wasn't dangerous.

She continued forward, the muscles in her legs burning from the ferocity of her effort. It felt as if she was running in slow motion but the ache in her legs contradicted that. An aeon later she reached the torrid, smouldering pit, the surrounding sand afire. Shiny patches scattered upon the sand drew her attention. Stooping down, she hesitantly touched one but the surface was so hot she withdrew her singed fingertips.

"Glass!" she muttered, astounded.

Whatever crashed was hot enough to produce glass out of the beach sand and this greatly captured her interest. It _had_ to be a meteor; what else was capable of accomplishing such a task? Turning back toward the crater, her eyes found a blackened mass she originally mistook for a large clump of burnt seaweed. Upon closer scrutiny she realised that it wasn't seaweed but a human figure. Charred beyond recognition, it appeared to be nothing more than a husk in a crucified position, much like a martyr who had settled in a corner to await eminent death.

"Oh my god!" she exclaimed, rushing to the charcoaled bit of former humanity. "Oh _no_!"

The victim was obviously someone who'd been on the beach and couldn't escape the meteor's path quickly enough.

"Fuck! You _poor thing_!" she lamented, her heart low and voice oozing sympathy for this unlucky soul.

Then she noticed something peculiar. Parts of the corpse were gradually fleshing out with raw muscle and reddened tissue. The ruddiness brightened into scar-tissue pink as, suddenly, the man's chest heaved and he sputtered a cough. In horrified shock she stumbled backwards, toppling over herself but unable to stop watching as the corpse further transmogrified into a person. It was like watching the Rebirth of Frank scene in the first _Hellraiser_ film and it nauseated her. Dumbfounded by what she was witnessing, she remained inert then realised hastily with an involuntary glance that the reforming man, whoever he may be, was completely nude and she had a blanket in her possession.

"What the _fuck_, you're _alive_!" she exclaimed breathlessly, fearfully approaching to shelter him with the blanket. "How the _fuck_ are you _alive_?!"

The man gasped again, greedy for air, as clear hazel eyes alive with pain opened to gaze at her, silently pleading. Visibly in terrible agony and in need of emergency medical attention, she knew that he would certainly die if she didn't get immediate help. Others were racing toward them; not just Tommy and his buddies but residents who lived along the beach were coming in a large herd. With mere precious moments to hide this man from their prying eyesight, she knew all too well how callous a group of onlookers could be in this day and age and this man needed _some_ dignity preserved.

"Are you able to walk?" she questioned him.

He didn't have to answer, she knew he couldn't; his lungs, vocal cords and tongue were too damaged. His melted ears, nose and lips were just beginning to slowly develop and hair soon sprouted all over the appropriate places. With his flesh still too raw, she was aware that the blanket was causing him a great deal of pain by touching him. Walking on flayed foot soles would be impossible for him. This man needed to be carried.

"What the hell _is_ it?!" someone shouted.

"What the fuck is goin' on?" inquired another.

They were much closer and, well aware of it, she wrapped the reforming man completely from sight in the blanket to offer him a scrap of modesty.

"It's OK," she soothed. "They're coming. We'll take you to the emergency room."

"What is going on here?" a less frantic but course Russian voice asked from a few feet away.

"My boyfriend couldn't get out of the way fast enough!" storied Elle. "Please help me carry him to my car so I can take him to the hospital!"

The Russian wasn't enormous sized but he was toned enough to bear the burden of the withered man back to the car. Plainly by the wrinkled expression across his rugged face he smelt the nauseating stench of cooked flesh that she herself neglected to notice in her haste to arrive at the site.

"Pick him up," she instructed. "Help me, please, or he's going to die!"

A look of disdain on his scarred face, the Russian scooped the still blackened and badly damaged body into his arms.

"Where is car?" the Russian asked.

At this point the others finally managed to reach them but came to a dead halt when they saw hints of the badly damaged body bundled in the Russian's arms.

"Follow me," she told the Russian Samaritan who trailed after her without question.

Encumbered by the sand, they hurriedly trudged back to the boardwalk with the group on their coattails. Thankfully she wasn't far from where her silver Nissan Versa was parked, for she originally started her walk in the opposite direction. The burnt man in the Russian's arms made eye contact with her and the pain in the bloodshot, watery orbs seemed lessened with an abundance of gratitude. His facial features now started to refine themselves and bcame more recognisable as human albeit still unrecognisable as an individual person. Questions were thrown at her like rocks by the tag-along crowd, the boldest being Tommy who felt more comfortable with her due to their previous encounter. Reaching the Versa, she unlocked it and opened the back door for the Russian to deposit the body in the back seat.

"Thanks!" she called to the Samaritan as she trotted around to the driver's side of the car and climbed in.

The Versa roared to life then she reversed like a pro and they were off, swerving frantically through the moderate traffic. A slew of police cars, ambulances and fire engines screamed passed on the opposite side of the divide on their way toward the scene at the beach and she considered in hindsight that perhaps leaving him there was the better choice after all. But Elle was an impulsive creature and it was her instinct to react as quickly as possible. Not believing that the ambulance would arrive in time, she thus took matters into her own hands.

"Hold on, mister!" she called to the moaning tortured humanity writhing across her back seat. "I'll get you to the hospital! You'll be fine!"

His movement merited from her a peek back at him through the rear view mirror only to abruptly have her attention brought back to the front by the loud blaring of a horn. In that instant she'd erroneously went through a stop sign and the car, with its occupant shouting obscenities, narrowly missed hers.

"Great," she mumbled, "I'm going to put us _both_ in the morgue at this rate."

An unforeseen, healthy gasp of breath from the back of the car distracted her again and again through the rear view mirror she saw the man in the back seat unexpectedly sit up. He appeared completely unscathed from his ordeal.

-----------------

"…_in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, New York tonight…"_

"Strange, isn't it?"

Grace was unaware of what the bar tender was talking about. Blinking her eyes behind her dark sunglasses, she gazed at the middle aged man.

"I'm sorry?" she asked evenly.

The bar tender gestured toward the television mounted on the wall behind him.

"What happened in New York," he replied. "There was some sort of explosion over Manhattan then this thing fell out of the sky and landed on the shores of Brighton Beach. They're trying to figure out what it was."

"Probably terrorists," another man close by butted in. "Everything that happens in New York is terrorists fault. At least it _has_ been."

"But nobody got hurt, that's the thing."

"Remember when that TWA jet exploded over there and it ended up being an American missile that shot it down? Maybe _that's_ what happened again."

Grace swirled her vodka around in its glass, eyes trained on the set where NBC was issuing a special report about the events unfolding in Brooklyn. There was a chaotic scene of police and rescue vehicles with red and blue lights casting eerie glows across the faces of the surrounding spectators behind the reporter.

_Gabriel is dead and all they care about is garbage falling out of the sky!_ Grace thought disdainfully then swallowed the last of her drink. _They don't even mention what happened to him!_

Then why would they? Gabriel had been murdered according to the detective who contacted her and they wouldn't release details on a pending murder investigation to the public.

Remorse wrecked her conscious; it was _her_ fault that Gabriel was dead. It was her duty to protect him and she failed. She'd always been the most dynamic and aggressive of the sibling pair. Outgoing and popular, she easily overshadowed the mousey, hushed Gabriel. She sought to be a star, he just wanted to blend in. Virginia Gray urged Gabriel to aspire to be more than he was, more than a watchmaker. _You could be something great, just like your sister if you applied yourself_ was what she used to tell him as he was obsessively bowed over something mechanical.

Looking back, Grace wished she would've told her mother to shut up and leave Gabe alone. She loved him and wanted him to be whatever _he_ wanted to be rather than whatever their mother expected of him. While Grace did numerous school plays, drama clubs, and talent shows, Gabriel discreetly did his science fairs, robotics clubs and chess tournaments, all of which mom seemed too preoccupied in Grace's activities to attend most of. Her brother was justifiably lonely and felt left out of many things. Grace tried to make up for it by spending large amounts of her free time with him which, despite their sharing a deep bond, could not completely heal the rift their mother's favouritism formed between them.

An unspoken rivalry always lingered between Gabriel and Grace. He was never malignant towards his elder sister but nevertheless tried to vainly compete with her for their mother's attention. Grace grew tired of Virginia's neglect of Gabriel and went alone to support him at a science fair in which he won first prize. Their mother should've been there, she thought angrily the whole time. Saddened by Gabe's disappointment each time someone else's parents entered the room, she argued with their mother on the subject when they arrived back home. All she was told to do was focus on herself and forget Gabriel's affairs.

Her brother, unintentionally overhearing this, charged from the house. Giving chase, she caught him at the corner and clutched him as he sobbed against her neck. She tried to offer comfort by falsely assuring him that mom didn't mean what it sounded like. But he wasn't fooled by Virginia's callous remark. They knew she loved Gabriel, that was evident in subtle ways, but she blatantly loved Grace more.

"Another?" the bar tender offered.

She nodded and shoved the empty glass his way which he dutifully refilled.

"Aren't you Grace Moriarty?" he queried.

"No," she answered with finality. "My name's Gray."

Her interest went back to the television where fire fighters busied themselves with putting out a fire in a tangle of weeds and brush.

"_Authorities are still baffled as to what it actually was that witnesses say fell out of the sky and crashed here on Brighton Beach, as nothing has been found except the gaping hole where the object appeared to have been."_

The camera cut to a rowdy, anxious group of teens, one boy being the spokesperson.

"_There was someone who got hurt!"_ the kid was informing. _"But this girl took him to the hospital in her car. He was pretty messed up. Probably dead."_

"_Police are searching for this woman and are checking all hospitals in the area, hoping that she can provide some answers,"_ the reporter continued. _"However, some believe that this incident in Brooklyn may be the result of the mysterious explosion that occurred over Manhattan just a half hour ago. The constant vigilance of Homeland Security will continue monitoring the possibility that this was a thwarted terrorist attack."_

"It's El Kay-der!" an intoxicated patron at the back of the bar shouted a mispronunciation. "Those goddamned sons of bitches! That damned Bin Lard-ass is always out to get those Yankee motherfuckers!"

The male friend beside the drunk, clearly embarrassed by his friend's outburst, slugged him in the arm.

"I wouldn't want to be in New York tonight," the bar tender said. "Those people must be sleeping with one eye open. What time is it over there now any way?"

"About midnight," the man near Grace answered.

"They'll shut down the airports till they can figure out what's going on. All hell is breaking loose for them."

The lights of the bar became bright, flickered then dimmed again.

"What the hell?" the bar tender exclaimed. "Looks like I'll have to call in an electrician. I don't need a fire catastrophe on _this_ coast."

Grace reached into her purse and counted out the cash for her bill.

"Where're you heading, if you don't mind my asking?" the bar tender threw out one last attempt at conversation with her.

"Into the hellmouth," she replied. "LaGuardia."

Then she was gone.

-----------------

"What the hell?!" shrieked Elle, slamming on the Versa's brakes to bring the car to a screeching halt.

"Don't stop," the man in her backseat hoarsely instructed, emphasised by an elongated honk from the car behind them.

Instinctively, she accelerated but could not keep her eyes completely off the rear passenger.

"_What_ the _fuck_ is going on?!" she demanded with tremor in her voice and hands, so shocked that she couldn't react any other way.

"I don't know," the man admitted, a hand streaked with ash held up to his throat which clearly bothered him. "I woke up and here I am. Pull over onto one of these cross streets."

Without further question, she did as he requested and parallel parked the car at the end of a row alongside a small community park. Safely off the road, she whirled around to face the stranger who himself appeared bewildered at the pending situation. Shaky and terrified, she backed up farther against the steering wheel and assaulted him with her verbal demand once again.

"Who the hell _are_ you?!" she ordered him to tell. "What's going on?! Give me answers, damn you!"

"I don't have any to give," he insisted, his eyes large and doe-like.

The hand at his throat raised to his head as if it were pounding. Maybe it was; Elle didn't know how it felt to miraculously recuperate from being a burnt shell of a human being.

"Are you some goddamned Criss Angel or something?" she pursued. "Because, I must admit, that was one hell of a spectacular magic trick you've just pulled off!"

"I _could_ be Criss Angel. I guess." But he saw her shake her head, indicating that she knew who Criss Angel was and he was not him. He retracted the statement by confessing, "I don't know who I am. I can't remember anything except intense pain and waking up on the beach with you. What happened?"

She gaped at the man in pure amazement for a few seconds and noticed how handsome he was beneath the dusting of ash and soot. He was thin and small of stature, his facial features were model pretty with a finely chiselled jaw, high cheekbones, and full lips. Yet his best feature was his eyes: large, hazel, dewy and doe-like, shadowed by thick low set brows. Losing herself in those eyes, she didn't notice as he grew self conscious of his nakedness and wrapped the blanket tighter around his wiry body which prompted her to divert her stare, taking a moment to gather herself and think of what to tell him.

"What happened. Right. I was walking along the beach," she started, recalling vividly, "and it started getting hotter. Something was in the sky, like a falling star, heading straight for the beach. It crashed and I ran to see what it was. There you were, as crisp as Cajun chicken and… You must've been on the beach already. You probably couldn't get out of the way fast enough. It must've hit you. Or hit close enough to you." She narrowed her eyes to slits and added, "That doesn't explain how you…rose from the dead."

Now he looked afraid and dumbfounded.

"I was…_dead_?"

"You _had_ to be! You were so badly burned there was nothing left of you. I was shocked that you were still alive…I don't know how you _could_ be alive. You just started _breathing_. It's a _miracle_. Are you in pain?"

"Unfortunately, yes. A hell of a lot. It's like I'm being torn apart and put back together. But I suppose that's exactly what happened to me. My throat…"

As if on cue, his voice agonisingly died in his throat and he brought his hand up to cover his Adam's apple as his otherwise handsome face was marred with a grimace.

"Do you still need to go to the hospital?" she asked. "I think you should. I mean, _maybe_ you should just to make sure you don't have any internal damage."

He waved off the suggestion with a motion of his hand and a shake of his head then after the pain subsided enough, retorted, "If I healed the way you said I did then I think I healed the same way internally. Besides, I don't think it's a good idea if I went to the hospital or to the police either. I'd have a lot of explaining to do and I'd probably end up as somebody's science experiment."

"Maybe you're _already_ somebody's science experiment and you escaped." She smiled and he returned the gesture. "I suppose you would end up as one if you already weren't. But we can lie. We can say you fell and got hurt."

"I don't think I need to go at all, thanks. I think I'm fine." Another pain must've coursed through his head because he winced and brought his hand to his forehead again. "I just hurt _so much_."

"I have something you can take," she said. "Hold on."

Rummaging through the handbag she'd discarded in the passenger seat next to her until she found a small travel container of Advil, she spilt two capsules into her palm which she handed to him. To her disgust, he swallowed before she could offer him water from a bottle in the front cup holder. She gave it to him any way and he gluttonously finished it.

"I'm sorry," he apologized with a slightly improved, less raspy voice as he handed back the empty container. "I was thirsty. My throat hurt."

"That's OK, I have plenty more."

"Can I have another?" he asked sheepishly. "Please?"

"Of course. Wait here and I'll get some."

She got out of the car and he watched as she opened the trunk then a few seconds later returned with a trio of unopened water bottles in the crook of her arm. She handed him two and replaced the empty one with the third in the cup holder. He readily cracked open one of the bottles and in a single breath finished it off as well.

"Feels _much_ better," he sighed. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

He huddled deeper into the blanket, shivering.

"Are you cold?" she inquired.

"I'm just feeling…naked."

"Well, you _are_ naked. I can get clothes from my brother for you. You look about his size except a little shorter…and…skinnier..." She paused, looking at him in an irresolute way that reflected her thoughts of if she should actually be aiding him or not. "He works the nightshift so he won't be home right now but I have a key."

"I would appreciate it." His face twisted in wonder then he asked, "I'm sorry, did you tell me your name? I can't give you mine but I'd like to know yours."

"Elle. Short for Eleanor." She uttered the full version of her name as if it were bile on her tongue. "I hate it: _Eleanor_. Sounds like an old lady name."

"Elle." He gave her a sweet, thoughtful smile. "I like it."

"Maybe we should give _you_ one."

He laughed a little but briefly choked, his eyes tearing as he fought to regain control.

"What do you think it might be?" he asked in a gasp.

She shrugged. "I don't know. You look like a Dave."

His expression was priceless.

"Dave? I look like a _Dave_?"

"_Everyone_ looks like a Dave. It's an unassuming, generic name."

"I suppose you're right. Dave it is, then." He peered out the rear window, an aura of nervousness enveloping him. "Maybe we should leave before we attract attention. We _do_ look conspicuous sitting here, me naked."

It was her turn to laugh.

"Yeah, you're right. I don't need prostitution charges against me. Although I wonder _who_ they would think the prostitute is."

He returned her laugh with a mischievous half-smile.

"I don't think it would look good on either of us," he admitted. "It doesn't help that I don't know who I am yet. I could be important or well-known."

"Wow. You don't even know your name and you've already got some ego."

He guessed by her tone that she was teasing so he laughed and dropped his head with humility, locks of his dark hair falling across his eyes.

"I somehow don't think I'm egotistical," he said. "I don't _feel_ like I am."

"I call your bluff on that."

"My bluff? Or is it the fact that I'm _in the buff_ and not in particularly bad shape?"

"There's that ego again and we've known each other for what? A total of thirty minutes?"

"If I was egotistical, I wouldn't be trying to hide inside this blanket, would I?"

"No, I suppose you wouldn't be. Tell you what. We'll go to Alex's apartment and talk there. I think we both can use a good cup of joe."

Raising his head, he brushed the dark tresses back from his face.

"That's coffee, right?" he asked meekly.

"Coffee, yeah."

Turning around to face forward, she turned the key in the ignition and they were off.

-----------------

Claire Bennet felt hollow inside when her dad Noah Bennet led her away from the chaotic scene of Kirby Plaza earlier that night. Throat too tight to spill a tear, she glanced mournfully over her shoulder, hoping desperately that Peter and her estranged father Nathan would either reappear or emerge from the dark street with bright smiles and proclamations that it was all a cruel prank.

But she knew it wasn't going to happen and the hurt swelled worse. Peter was not cruel and Nathan was not a comic. In one fell swoop she lost everything she had just recently gained. The uncle who selflessly rescued her from prophesied death before they so much as knew each other; an uncle with an innate desire to help others and possessed a heart of gold that was rare in today's world. The biological father with whom she'd just reunited, who she never truly had the opportunity to get to know; a father who at first was self-absorbed and careless but who chose to sacrifice himself so that his brother wouldn't have to bear the guilt of unintentionally murdering millions. While so many were saved, Claire was the one person who walked away with the greatest loss.

_I should've stayed!_ she bashed herself as she lay in her bed back at the hotel she begged her dad to get for the night. Compelled to stay in Manhattan a while longer, she believed it insensitive to depart after the catastrophe that befell her biological family tonight. It was doubtful that Nathan would survive the explosion but the restorative power which Peter stole from her would allow her uncle to live. What if he _needed_ her? Her dad insisted that if either of the Petrelli brothers survived there was still nothing she could do but that did not quell her culpable feelings of abandonment of the Petrelli brothers.

_I can still be there for them, like I should be!_

But she _wasn't_ there for them; at least not in the way she wanted to be. Reluctant to leave Kirby Plaza, she'd absently allowed her dad to escort her away. Dead or alive, Peter and Nathan had to fall _somewhere_ and Peter would most certainly regenerate wherever he ended up. He would need help, someone to care for him. No-one knew as she did how tormented and vulnerable her uncle would be and her heart broke that he would endure the torture of regeneration alone. It was as if she herself was experiencing that affliction right now, sending shudders through her body at the thought of Peter being critically wounded and alone.

That convinced her. Nestling further into the blankets, she finally released her tears, flinching when an errant sob was expelled louder than she expected. Peeking over the edge of the bed clothes, she saw her dad still asleep fitfully in the next bed over. His back was turned to her, his breathing still even so she took comfort with the discovery that he was deaf to her crying.

_I love you, dad, but I lost something equally precious tonight!_

Smearing her tears away with the back of her hand, she sat up, eyes fixated on the sleeping man. Torn between her daughterly duties for two families, she weighed the options: go back home to Odessa, Texas with Noah Bennet and endeavour to continue life as it always had been or stay and help Angela Petrelli search for her lost sons.

Life in Odessa would never again be what it once was. Normal was no longer a luxury for her or the Bennets. All of the proceedings that led up to this night's events removed her from reality and launched her into an impossible dream, a dream which was lived by Noah Bennet but shared with the Petrellis. It was _Peter_ who protected her from eminent death, _Peter_ who guided her and taught her what little he knew of their powers, their destinies. They were soul mates of sorts who shared an infrangible bond, she and the young nurse, and the deliberation that he was in dire consequences shattered her. Was it possible for one half of a whole to survive without the other? If something terrible happened to Peter, she would find out the hard way.

Whether anyone else liked it or not, she was a part of the Petrelli clan and she owed them loyalty as well, particularly Peter. He was the one who deserved her allegiance more than anyone else. Leaving him to fend for himself when he was defenceless and weak was unthinkable. He died for her once in Odessa. He died for her again tonight. The least she could do was stay. Dad wouldn't agree with that, she realised, and it frustrated her. She understood Noah Bennet's point of view; she just wished that her comprehension was reciprocated.

_What am I supposed to do?_

There was no contest as to who needed her the most at the moment. Taking another glance at her dad, she carefully slipped out of bed and made her choice.

-----------------

Elle's brother Alex lived in an apartment complex somewhere in Sheepshead Bay and during their ride Elle occupied herself with singing along to a song by an artist named Fergie, something that sounded familiar to the young man Elle named Dave. He knew he heard that song before, that someone he knew liked it, but who that person was he had no clue. When he searched his blank mind all he could remember was waking up on the beach with Elle maniacally backing away from him. The harder he tried to remember the more difficult it became to stave off the recurring headache. The one thing that carried a blessing was that now his body was enigmatically healed the misery of regeneration left him.

Maybe he should just stop trying to remember so hard, he considered. He was certain that once in his life someone told him that the harder you tried to hold onto something the easier it was for it to slip away. If he stopped trying then maybe he would manage to regain at least a fraction of his lost memory. A name would due for now, as he was not particularly fond of being called Dave. It was too _common_ for him; he _knew_ that his name definitely was not Dave because something innate within him knew he was an uncommon man in an unexplainable way.

"He's on the third floor and the steps up are pretty narrow so you'll wanna watch your step, Dave," Elle suggested as they exited the car which she parked across the street from the building.

He responded with a nod and tracked behind her to the darkened building. Everything around him piqued his interest as he wondered whether or not he'd been there before or had seen this particular thing numerous times previously. Inchoate like a newborn with the awareness of an adult, he designated Elle as his dependable guide, for without her he had the sinking feeling that he would be in terrible trouble.

"Shhh!" the girl advised as she unlocked and opened the front door, ushering him inside first.

Though neither of them made a sound, the heavy security door shut behind them with a loud clunk that echoed in the empty antiseptic hallway. Dave flinched then ascended the stairs Elle was already half way up.

The apartment they stopped outside of was 4C and Elle made such a racket fumbling with the keys that Dave flinched, fraught by the fact that he'd been completely nude beneath the shielding blanket this entire time. She cursed under her breath when she got the wrong key; his eyes roamed the stark white hallway, scanning the rows of other closed doors on the level, praying that nobody was snooping. He wondered who lived behind each door, what they looked like, how their lives were, if there was a chance that he was included in their number and, most importantly, who was the one who'd left the pungent odour of atrocious cooking lingering in staleness throughout the hall.

At last Elle managed to open the door and she vanished inside to snap on a lamp. Beckoning him in, she disappeared into the depths of the apartment as he timidly stepped inside. He was uncomfortable being there while the resident was not at home despite the fact that he was accompanied by the man's sister. It felt wrong. Acquiescing that he had no real choice in the matter, he carefully shut the door behind him.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"In the kitchen!" she called back.

He ventured farther inside, noticing a light towards the back. Using it as a beacon, he made his way through the sparse apartment filled with ratty, second-hand furniture and into the tiny kitchen in the back. Elle was filling a tea kettle with water from the tap and she gestured for him to sit at the flimsy Formica table in one of the white plastic chairs tucked haphazardly beneath it. He sat and watched as she placed the tea kettle on the stove, turned on the burner then sat across from him.

"Y'know, Dave," she started, "I was thinking about who you might be."

"That makes two of us."

"You're hot. A real pretty boy. Maybe you're a model. Maybe you were out there hanging out on the beach, working on your tan…"

"At night?"

"Good point. Maybe you were smoking some pot and that's why you didn't see it coming. Maybe you thought it was a falling star and tried to make a wish or something."

The brunette male flashed her an incredulous look.

"I _don't_ smoke," he responded curtly.

"Oh. Are you _sure_?"

"I'd be wanting a cigarette by now if I did, wouldn't I?"

"If ever there was a time for one I guess this would be it. Sorry if I offended you; it was a lame attempt at being funny. I was being serious about the modelling thing though. I mean, _look_ at you."

"I'm _not_ pretty."

She chuffed at his ignorance.

"Have you looked at yourself in a mirror?"

"Would I be egotistical if I did?"

Elle's expression proved that she wasn't certain whether or not he was being sarcastic or teasing her about the earlier remark. He smiled at her with mirth dancing in his puppyish eyes and she relaxed.

"See for yourself," she urged.

Grabbing the metallic silver toaster from the counter, she held the appliance up so he could see his comely reflection. He stared at his ashy, dirty face for a minute or two, soaking in his appearance and hoping that he could read a clue to his identity in his fine facial features. She probably thought him vain but all he wanted was answers, answers which still eluded him. Finally he shook his head and sat the toaster on the table.

"No," he said, "I'm _not_ a model."

"Are you sure?" she asked, sliding the toaster back onto the counter.

"I just don't _feel_ like one. I feel more important than that. Like I had a greater purpose in my life. I was _somebody_, Elle. I just don't know who it was."

"We're all _somebody_, Dave. You just forgot who _you_ are."

_But I'm not just anybody! I _know_ I'm different!_ he wanted to tell her but bit his tongue to not impulsively spill it. _I can feel it in the marrow of my bones!_

His thoughts were disrupted by the whistle of the tea kettle piercing the room. Elle immediately shut off the burner then began to prepare their coffee.

"Alex doesn't make a lot of money," she explained, stirring the water into two mugs. "He can only afford cheapie instant crap."

"I'm not picky," he told her. "At least I don't _think_ I am. I'm willing to try anything."

A steaming mug of hot instant coffee was placed before him and he simply stared at it as if afraid of it. Elle blew into her mug then sipped. He imitated her and found the rather sweet goop surprisingly favourable to his palate.

"It's good," he told her.

"No it's not, you can be honest. Personally I like real coffee brewed in a coffee maker, not this freeze-dried shit but beggars can't be choosers, can they?"

"No, I suppose not. But it'll due."

"Since you have no inkling of who you are, that means you also don't know where you come from either."

"Not one clue."

"You'll need a place to sleep. I would let you stay here but I think things would be awkward when Alex comes home. I would let you come back to my place but my roommate is a jealous skank and she'd be upset that I'm with a hottie. Hmm. Poor Amber. Guess she'll just have to live with it."

"If I'm going to be a nuisance for you I'll just stay…someplace else."

"Where? Park bench? Back on the beach? I don't think so. It's a dangerous world out there, even for men. Especially men with amnesia."

"I just don't want to cause any trouble."

"Consider making Amber jealous a payment."

"If she's a problem why don't you kick her out?"

Elle sighed doggedly.

"Ever try to make rent on your own around here? Probably have, but… Well, it's impossible. That's why Alex is living in this dump. And try to get another roommate? Just as difficult. Amber pays her rent faithfully on time. Can't get any better than that in a roommate."

"I'll owe you."

"No you don't. Trust me when I tell you that Amber's reaction will be enough."

"Umm, Elle? I don't mean to be a nag or anything, but I'm still naked."

Elle, who'd grown used to seeing him in his undressed state and was oblivious of his most immediate needs, looked as if the answer to a troublesome equation came to her out of the blue.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Yeah, clothes!"

She leapt from her chair and disappeared again. He sat alone, staring at the grimy hand he had wrapped around the mug and realised another issue. Sounds of Elle rummaging in closets and drawers somewhere ended abruptly before she returned with an assembly of clothing in her arms.

"Here ya go, Dave."

"Thanks. I need to shower too."

"Sure. Follow me."

She took him into a matchbox sized bathroom, reached up towards the ceiling to pull a string that snapped on the bare bulb overhead then placed the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink.

"You remember how to shower, don't you?" she questioned and he knew her ulterior motive for asking.

He gave a crooked smile that made him appear even more boyish and replied, "I think I can manage on my own, thanks."

"Can't blame a girl for trying. If you need me give a shout. Especially if it's for washing those hard-to-reach spots."

"Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks."

She left the room and he shut the door behind her. Dropping the blanket, he considered locking the door but decided against it in case his gracious host was insulted. Some trust needed to be shown and if she honestly was out to molest him she had plenty of previous opportunity to do so.

Turning on the water for the shower, he adjusted it before stepping in and, lathering up with the bar in the nook in the wall, wondered where this body acquired the ability to mend the way Elle said it did. It was an extraordinary accomplishment for a simple man named Dave. What else had this thin, wiry but lithe body capable of? His muscles were hard and sinewy despite the fact that he was a small person, his grip strong, his stomach taut. At the very least he was in excellent physical condition.

Regardless of the glorious sensation the water rained down over him, he was impatient to rejoin Elle in the kitchen before his much desired coffee became cold. He cleansed himself of the ash and soot, and quickly washed his hair before turning off the water and stepping back out. The room was sauna quality so he cracked open the door slightly to release some of the steam while he dressed in the white T-shirt and blue Bermuda shorts that were provided for him. On a whim, he wiped the condensation from the mirror with the palm of his hand, towelled his hair dry then stared long at his reflection for a second time that night.

Doing so was such a strange experience for his face was something he should've recognized. It was his own, after all, and he should've known it better than anyone else. Yet it was alien to him, as foreign as the name Dave sounded. If eyes were the mirrors to the soul then he was in deep shit because his weren't betraying any pertinent information. He moved closer to the mirror, searching his eyes deeper still, probing for _something_, _anything_…

"Yes!" a euphoric cry back in the kitchen shouted, startling him.

He rushed from the bathroom and returned to the kitchen where Elle was rising out of her chair.

"What's wrong?!" he asked, his eyes wide and roaming the room for signs of trouble.

"Not a damn thing, Dave! I forgot the best thing about living in a Russian community…" She reached inside the cabinet beneath the sink, stretched for something inside and placed a large bottle of imported vodka on the table between them. "…is they are renowned for their excellent vodka."

Dave smiled with relief as Elle poured a generous amount of the alcohol into her coffee. When she leaned over to add some to his he shook his head, he placed a newly cleaned hand over the top of the mug.

"No thanks," he said. "I think that under my given circumstances I need to keep a clear head."

"Fair enough," she conceded. "Wow. You cleaned up _very_ well."

"Thanks." He blushed a little.

"Why don't you turn on the TV? Maybe there'll be some information as to who you are."

"Why didn't we think of that before?"

She shrugged, retorting, "We were a bit distracted. It isn't every day that some guy is resurrected from the dead."

"I suppose you're right."

Dave left the kitchen to stroll into the dark lounge where he snapped on the television. Checking to make sure he wasn't paying attention, Elle dumped a considerably large splash of vodka into his coffee then took both of their mugs and joined him in the other room.

"Thanks," he said, taking the mug from her.

As they sat together on the sofa, their eyes were focused on the television which was only a small thirteen-incher but it sufficed for their needs. As expected, a special report was broadcasting.

"…_witnesses saw something falling from the sky but there was no debris found at the location where it came crashing down. The only thing that they saw on the scene was a young woman fleeing with a body barely recognizable as human."_

The reporter's camera time was cut to show a young man Elle identified as Tommy.

"_She said her boyfriend was hurt and needed to go the hospital,"_ the young man was telling the camera. _"But he looked _dead_. He was burned up like he was set on fire or somethin'. She said he couldn't move out of the way and whatever fell hit him. Looked like charcoal, man."_

Dave gulped his coffee, held the liquor-laced drink in his mouth and turned to Elle with a scowl but decidedly swallowed it any way. The young woman was too engrossed with the news report to enjoy the results of her sneakiness.

"_Police would like to question this young woman,"_ the reporter continued. _"She and the wounded boyfriend may have vital information as to what it was that actually happened out here on Brighton Beach. They are searching for a young woman in her early to mid-twenties, five foot six with blond shoulder length hair…"_

A composite of Elle's face flashed across the screen and the young woman cursed. Dave forgot his ruined coffee.

"I guess it _wouldn't_ be a good idea to go back to my place after all," she muttered, deflection in her voice.

"Does anybody know where _this_ place is?"

Elle shook her head.

"No, thank god. Not even Amber. All she knows is that it's around here somewhere but she's never been here, thank god. Looks like we'll be staying for the night after all."

Without asking, she reached over, took Dave's cup and poured the rest of his coffee into her almost empty one.

"Sorry about that, Dave," she amended, still not looking at him.

"It's OK, I didn't want it any way."

"_The incident on Brighton Beach wasn't the only strange thing that occurred tonight,"_ the male anchor imparted. _"A foiled attempted murder in Kirby Plaza that had been witnessed by several leaves behind the would-be assailant's body who police say was killed with a sword…"_

Dave cringed.

"A sword?" he repeated. "What's this world coming to?"

"It's a sick world, Dave. He got his justice."

He yawned without warning and she cocked her eye brow at him.

"Getting sleepy there?" she asked.

"A little. I've had enough of this day and I don't even know what happened during it."

"It might not be a good idea for you to sleep. You could have a concussion. We don't know what happened to you. If you were on the beach and that thing fell on top of you then you could have some sort of head injury we're unaware of."

"I think I'm fine."

"How do you know?"

"If I was injured as badly as you say I was but healed then a concussion would've healed with no trouble."

"I suppose you're right. Well, sleeping arrangements are going to be reversed. Since I can't leave a total stranger sleeping out here in the open on the couch for my brother to come home and attack, then you'll have to take the bed. I'll sleep out here on the couch so that _I'm_ the first thing Alex sees when he comes home."

"No," Dave insisted. "I can't do that to you. Not after all you've done for me."

"Sorry, Dave, I don't sleep with men I've just met. Especially hot, creepy ones." She sighed playful resignation when she noticed he wasn't consenting then said, "Fine. Then there's only one other solution. You sleep above the covers."

He nodded. "Agreed."

"I'll get you a blanket from the linen closet."

The couple rose from the couch, leaving behind the vodka-laced coffee and turned off the television. They'd found out all that was necessary and then some before he followed her to the bedroom. Here she didn't bother turning on a light because the street lamp outside provided enough striped bars of illumination through the opened blinds. He stood in place near one side of the bed as she rummaged through the closet to find a suitable blanket for him.

"Here ya go," was all she said in warning before tossing one over at him.

The blanket covered his head before he could catch it, making her chuckle.

"Thanks," he said flatly, pulling the blanket off his head, his long bangs falling into his eyes.

"Sorry," she laughed, sliding into the bed.

Dave swept his hair back from his face with his hand and unfurled the donated blanket then waited until Elle settled before lying down himself.

"Night," Elle muttered.

"Good night," he returned softly then, finally at peace, fell asleep straight away.

-----------------


	2. Issue 2

------------------------

"Our siblings. They resemble us just enough to make all their differences confusing, and no matter what we choose to make of this, we are cast in relation to them our whole lives long."  
Susan Scarf Merrell

Chapter 2

She stood at the window of JFK Airport, frowning with disgruntlement, still refusing to accept the sinking feeling that Nathan did a foolish thing and went against her wishes. No-one _ever_ dared defy Angela Petrelli, not even her cherished sons. Yet in the eleventh hour of their escape to Paris when they were about to board their private jet, her eldest decided to take an antithetical stand, told her that he needed to make a quick stop, kissed her on the cheek and left.

She waited restively, checking her watch every minute but her fears were confirmed when she saw the mushroom cloud high above the city rather than on the ground where it should have been.

_God_damn_ you! You've ruined _everything

But it hadn't been Nathan she thought of while the contemplation coursed through her mind.

Her jaw clenched in disgust, fingernails digging into the leather of her purse, she indignantly whirled around on her stiletto heels and commanded that she be taken back to the mansion.

Linderman's pilot expressed confusion but uttered not a single word, acquainted with complying with Lady Petrelli's every whim for he knew how unwise it was not to. She strutted ahead of him in a huff, head held high and hell-bent to shout at someone. The problem was there was no-one to yell at. Nathan was gone. Peter would be missing. But she would find him. And there would be hell to pay.

------------------------

Dave dreamt that he was glowing. He didn't understand why but it disturbed him immensely. Men shouldn't _glow_, men shouldn't be glowing _and_ _hot_. Not hot in the same context that Elle referred to him as being but burning like fire, like molten lava, like a bomb scorching the landscape. This made him toss and turn until he felt someone shaking him awake, calling him Dave. The name was known yet wrong.

Nevertheless he jolted awake, hazel eyes gaping in terror as they surveyed the odd room. Then his eyes found Elle and, recognizing her, he calmed and his breathing evened out.

"Are you all right?" she inquired.

"I think so. I just had the wildest dream."

"What about?"

"I'm not really sure. I think, I think I was going to…_explode_."

"Probably all of that vodka you didn't drink in your coffee coming back to haunt you. You kicked me. Hard. Several times."

He passed her a sheepish look.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know what I was doing. The dream…it felt so _real_."

"Maybe it's a clue to who you are," she offered.

His thick eyebrows knitted in contemplation.

"Why would I explode?"

Elle offered her signature shrug.

"Maybe it was symbolic."

"Maybe."

"Then again, how could you heal the way you did?"

His lissome form quaked as if he was cold.

"Are you OK?" she inquired, noticing his tremulous behavior.

"No. I'm afraid. I don't like not knowing who I am. What if someone's worried about me? What if someone wants to hurt me?"

"_If_ is a powerful word, Dave. _If_ may never be. In your position you need to take things as they come. There is just no other way for you to handle it. Go back to sleep. There's nothing you can do about anything right now."

"I know you're right but I can't help it. It's awfully debilitating to not even know your own name."

Elle sighed.

"Awww, Dave!" she expelled softly. "I _know_ this is hard on you. I'm sorry for that. I can't relate to what you're going through but, for what it's worth, you _do_ have _me_. I've only known you for a few hours but I care about you. And it isn't because you're a total hottie either. You're sweet. I get a good vibe around you and I want to help you."

Dave felt her hand slip over his and gently squeeze. Accepting the solace, he flipped his palm over to interlock their fingers then squeezed back.

"Thanks," he told her. "That means a great deal to me."

"No problem, Dave." Peeking over his shoulder at the digital alarm clock exhibiting the large red numbers 3:23, she yawned. "We've still got a few more hours before Alex comes home. Try to go back to sleep."

She quietly coaxed him down on his back again. To his surprise, she warmed up to him by nestling against his body. Strangely enough, having her within intimate proximity pacified him further and his heart beat gradually steadied. Her body was warm and the beach scented her hair; he shut his eyes to savior it.

"I don't know if I can," he yawned.

Yet she held a sort of soporific effect on him as he already was groggy. With an arm drawing his lovely savior close, he managed to find peace in sleep again.

------------------------

Somewhere over the continental United States, Grace was too pissed off to sleep. Her darkened skies steadily transferred from black to dark blue and the toddler sitting in front of her refused to sit back in his own seat. The boy's parents were both out cold and the little brat was taking full advantage.

Grace never liked children. The only one that had ever mattered to her was her brother. Children tend to block women from what they want in life; her career always came first and there was no room for the interference of her own children. It was bad enough that after she moved to Hollywood Gabriel became so drastically introverted that he severed all contact with her. Given that he was the only family she cared about having, several attempts were made at reaching him but he never returned her calls. She sacrificed _everything_ for her fame and in hindsight the result cost more than she was willing to lose. Gabriel meant the world to her and she let him slip away.

Now the only thing outside of her career that she valued was taken away from her. Nothing could be done to change it. Gabriel, the shy watchmaker, skilled with time but unable to turn back that precious commodity to correct their mistakes. His last words to her resonated in the halls of her tortured memory:

_Time waits for no-one, Grace. It passes away and we can't get it back. We must make the most of it while we have it. You didn't. You left me for goldbrick streets and Astroturf. At least our relationship was real, not like that silly town you chose to live in. I will always love you but I don't know you any more. Good-bye, Grace._

Thinking of what he said fueled her rage so that her body prickled with electrical sensations. The dimmed cabin lights brightened.

_Now isn't the time to be irate! _she reprimanded herself.

An underhanded thought pierced through her clouded mind like the lightning that charged inside her body. There was _one_ outlet she could vent her anger on.

"Hey, little guy," she muttered to the little boy leaning over and staring rudely into her face. "Want to see a cool magic trick?"

The child nodded and currents of electricity buzzed within the palm of her hand.

------------------------

By the time Angela Petrelli arrived back at the mansion, dark circles of unrest crept beneath her high maintenance eyes. Her exhaustion overwhelmed her so that she thought she was seeing a mirage when the limousine parked outside the front door. The chauffeur came around to open the door for her but upon realizing that her eyes were not playing tricks the matriarch already had the door open and was exiting the car without assistance.

"Claire!" she addressed stiffly. "What are you doing here at this ungodly hour? I assumed you would be on a plane back to Texas."

"I couldn't leave," the petite blonde responded. "I had to stay."

"Where is Mr. Bennet?"

"You mean my dad?" she corrected firmly.

"Yes, your…dad, as you call him."

"He's back at the hotel. He wanted to catch the red-eye back to Texas."

"But you convinced him otherwise."

"He doesn't know I'm here. I told you. I couldn't leave. I refuse to go without knowing what happened to Peter."

Angela sighed, her jaw tightening again. She had no time for these things.

"Come with me," she instructed curtly. "We'll discuss this matter inside."

Claire shadowed her estranged grandmother into the elaborate mansion she'd only visited a few times and into the sumptuous yellow sitting room where Mohinder Suresh had lately delivered a very dead Peter after a lethal encounter with Sylar. The teen stared longingly at the white and blue patterned chaise lounge where her beloved uncle's body had lain that day, not because she wanted confirmation of his current impending death but because she desired to see him regenerated and smiling affectionately at her as he had on that day after she removed the shard of glass from the back of his skull. Memory of his warm smile brought a tear down one of her eyes which she furtively wiped away in fear that her grandmother would persecute her for being emotionally weak.

"You should've left, Claire. There's nothing you can do for him."

"With all due respect, you're wrong. I can _be_ here and that's enough for him."

"He influenced you with his turbid day dreams of greatness and talks of family unity, didn't he?"

"Better to be a dreamer with big hopes for the world than to be hopeless and watch it all crumble to ash," the cheerleader said pithily through clenched teeth.

"Don't be unreasonable, my dear, you know perfectly well that he cannot die."

"He can't _physically_ die but you left him to die a worse kind of death. An emotional, moral death. You know how sensitive he is and yet you _still_ sentenced him to survive with the guilt of uncontrollably killing millions. He was your _son_ and for all of the Petrelli solidarity you and my father preached you both exploited and deserted him."

Angela took the young woman's accusations into stride with the poise of her breeding. Holding her chin high, she peered down at Claire in haughty scorn.

"How _dare_ you speak to me in that tone? You haven't an _inkling_ of what's going on and you have the audacity to think that you can waltz in here and dictate how _I_ run _my_ house? You have got a _lot_ to learn, young lady." Pausing to take a deep breath, she persisted in a genial voice: "I adored Peter. He was my son, my baby boy. I have genuine love for him that goes beyond the typical maternal bond. That is something you have yet to understand. But Peter was always the weak link in the family. God knows he meant well but that was the trouble with him. He reacted with his heart rather than thought with his head."

Claire flinched when she noticed that Peter was being referenced to in the past tense.

"So because you believe Peter's caring nature is an imperfection you'd rather leave him out there seriously wounded to fend for himself."

"Peter was resilient and resourceful. If he's alive he'll find his way back to us."

"What if he _can't_?"

Claire stood horrified and tearful while the older woman remained unresponsive and as immobile as a statue.

"You don't _want_ him to, do you?" the girl inquired, a sickened feeling swelling her stomach. "You hope he's gone for good."

"Don't be ridiculous, Claire, even in death he'll still be a part of this family."

"But he's the _weakest_ part. You said so yourself. You hoped that you could rid yourself of him in one form or another, that's why you weren't concerned about him exploding." The ghastly realization made her mind swoon. "My god, _what_ kind of a family _is_ this? You're all _monsters_ and Peter's the exception to your rules so he's expendable."

"I don't appreciate your accusations, young lady. You aren't the only one who's lost someone precious tonight. As a matter of fact, it's clear you've forgotten your father who was an equal loss. Nathan is dead, Claire, and _he_ _isn't_ coming back."

The girl shook her head to clear it.

"I can't place more value on one than on the other," Claire replied through clenched teeth. "But my father _had_ a choice. Peter didn't."

A brief, uncomfortable pause ensued in which Claire wanted to shift her eyes to anything other than her orgulous grandmother. Nor did she wish to be in the same room as her and regretted seeking her out.

"Why don't you sit down? Take a few deep breaths to calm yourself then we'll discuss this further. But I won't allow you to question my motives or my feelings for Peter. What's done is done and cannot be changed. We'll move forward, not backwards."

True, Claire desired to flee from the mansion and never do so much as glance back over her shoulder but concern for Peter kept her in place. There was, of course, worry about her father but his fate appeared to be certain. Can't resurrect the dead unless they were like her and Peter. While she shed many tears tonight for Nathan Petrelli, she needed to focus her energy on the one who could be saved, especially since it seemed like she was the only one who really cared about his welfare.

Nodding obedience, she slid down into a cushy chair and rubbed her tired, gritty eyes. Unconcerned by her appearance, she hadn't bothered to apply any make up prior to leaving the hotel because she wanted to reach the mansion as quickly as possible. It was childish of her to expect Peter would be waiting and all she would have to do was pluck out another shard of glass from that certain spot in the back of his head then he would be fine. If only life was that easy. Alas, it rarely was.

"Then we can look for Peter?" she pressed, suspicious of her grandmother's intent.

Angela's saccharine sweet smile reminded Claire of one given by a fairy tale witch.

"Of course we can, dear. We'll bring Peter home very soon, safe and sound."

------------------------

As he neared the front of his building, Alex Miasnikov spotted his sister's Versa parked on the street opposite the complex. _Great_, he thought, _I'll have to deal with petty drama before going to bed! _Dawn lightened the sky and laborious work packing meat in Manhattan all night rendered him as useless as jelly. The only time Elle visited in the night was if Amber was being insufferable. At the moment he didn't want to hear the paltry complaints of females, he just wanted to sleep. Yet she was still his sister and there was a necessity for loyalty between them. He knew that if he needed to he would sacrifice sleep entirely to make sure everything was good again.

Usually he ascended the stairs to his apartment two at a time but in knowing what awaited him he trudged up them singly, fumbled with his keys after he reached the door, dropped them as he tried to unlock it, then at last managed to get the door open. Softly shutting it behind him, he called to Elle. There was no answer and she was not on the sofa where she customarily slept while waiting for him to return.

Tossing his keys to a random place he knew he would later forget, he walked into the kitchen expecting her to be there but found it empty, as was the bottle of vodka on the table. This was definitely going to be one hell of a ride; he considered running back out to purchase more vodka for himself in anticipation of the event.

"Elle!" he called vaguely louder, walking back through the apartment.

She was standing in the hallway leading to the bedroom, fully clothed and already shushing him.

"_Be quiet, dorkus!_" she whispered urgently. "He's _sleeping_!"

This statement upset Alex.

"_He_? What do you mean _he_?"

"OK, that's what I need to talk to you about. Don't be mad at me…"

"Did you bring a _guy_ in here? Where is he? In my _bed_?! Elle, please tell me you did _not_ have sex with some guy in _my_ _bed_!"

"Eeewww! No! _No!_ How old do you think I _am_, for Christ's sake? Will you shut up and _listen_?!

"I'm listening. You'd better have a goddamned good explanation for what I'm hearing."

"You have to sit down for this one."

"Are you serious?"

"I almost got into a car accident because of it."

"_What?!_"

"Sit down, damn it!"

Elle shoved Alex down onto the sofa but remained standing and began pacing before him.

"Why did you drink all of my booze?" griped Alex sourly.

"Did you hear about what happened in Brighton tonight?" Elle ignored her brother's question.

Alex gazed at her cautiously. "No, I've been working all night. You know I can't…"

"I was walking along the beach when something fell out of the sky. It was like a meteor or something. It crashed and fell on top of this guy. I went to help him but he was so fucked up, Alex. He was dead. Or at least I _thought_ he was dead. But he wasn't. He was like a burnt husk or something. This dude as big as the Hulk carried him to my car so I could drive him to the emergency room. I was driving as fast as I could. Then suddenly he breathed…and when I looked in the mirror he was _mint_ like nothing happened!"

Alex listened in pure skepticism as Elle imparted her tale about the miracle man who apparently was in the bedroom sound asleep in his bed. At first he fumed with rage that his sister would bring some stranger into his home in his absence. By the time she finished, Alex's intrigue accrued until he was suffocated with curiosity to see this person.

"This man is sitting on the beach," Alex recapped, "when a meteor falls on him. He gets fucked up to the point of not being recognizably human. He starts to breathe so someone helps you carry him to your car. You're driving him to the hospital when suddenly he sits up and he's perfectly fine."

"Yeah!"

"He looked like nothing happened."

"Yeah!"

"Are you sure you didn't hit that vodka sooner?"

"This happened _before_ I came over, Alex! Come with me."

"Where?"

"You want to see him. I _know_ you do."

Alex conceded by rising from the sofa and merely trailing Elle into the bedroom. To their surprise the stranger, a handsome young man with longish dark bangs that fell into his enormous eyes, already sat perched at the edge of the bed waiting for them.

"Dave!" Elle squealed. "You're awake!"

"Yeah," the guy apparently named Dave responded, pushing the bangs back from his eyes. "I already couldn't sleep well as it was and when I heard you talking…"

"Sorry."

"You must be Elle's brother Alex. I wish I could tell you _my_ name but I have no idea what it is. Elle's just been calling me Dave."

Alex nodded, feeling highly territorial.

"Well…_Dave_…I wish I could say that I'm pleased to meet you but I'm slightly confused. I come home to find you lying in my bed with my sister and she fabricates this bizarre story about how you miraculously healed after pretty much rising from the dead."

"I know it sounds crazy…"

"Crazy's not the word, my friend."

Tension mounted as Alex became more confrontational.

"I _know_ what it must look like," Dave said, mechanically standing to meet the challenge. "But I swear to you, I'm not that kind of a guy. I didn't touch your sister."

"I'm thinking that you did more than just touch her. How do you know you're not that kind of guy if you have no memory? With this whacky story she's coming up with it seems like you fed her an illegal substance of some type."

"Christ, Alex!" complained Elle. "_Think_ about that! Why in the hell would he bring me back to _your_ place if that was true? You'd _kill_ him."

"Damn right I would."

"I might not know who I am," Dave stated, "but I know in my heart that I would never do something like that to anybody…"

Without warning, Alex lashed out with closed fists at Dave who was prepared enough to duck. Elle shrieked for her brother to desist his attack as Alex rushed toward Dave with the aim of pinning him against the wall and pummeling him senseless. Or he would've if Dave didn't somehow fade away until he vanished from sight.

"What the fuck?!" exclaimed Alex in surprise, scanning the room. "Where did he go?!"

"Ah-I don't know!" Elle stammered, surveying around the vicinity with wild eyes.

"Did you _see_ that?! He just _disappeared_!"

Elle screeched in surprise as Dave suddenly reappeared beside her from out of thin air, appearing equally baffled.

"Did you see what I can do?!" Dave asked excitedly. "_How_ did I do that?!"

More enraged that he was tricked by this miracle man, Alex assailed again, this time catching Dave off guard, his fist striking the statuesque young man square in the face. Taking advantage of this, Alex toppled Dave over and began a full onslaught, Elle trying her best to pry him off. Then in mid-swing Alex's offending fist stopped and he couldn't bring it back down against Dave's livid, bloodied face.

"Get the fuck _off_ of him, Alex!" demanded Elle.

"What the hell are you _doing_, you _freak_?!" wailed Alex with conviction. "I can't move my hand! I can't _move_ it!!"

An unseen force held Alex's fist away from Dave's face and regardless of how much effort he put into moving it wouldn't budge at all. Alex strained against the force with anguished cries but to no avail.

"Dave!" called Elle in a mystified tone. "_Your face!_"

Dave freed one of his hands from beneath a stunned Alex who watched as his victim touched that hand to his bloody lip. He gawked at the crimson that came off onto his fingertips but he felt what was happening without even seeing it first hand. The split lip was sealing back up.

"See?" Elle whispered like a child saying _I-told-you-so_ to her brother. "I _told_ you he could heal fast!"

Alex was finally able to drop his fist and his jaw dropped with it.

------------------------

By the time the plane landed in LaGuardia, Grace was quite satisfied with herself after successfully winning a peaceful flight by showing the little brat in front of her a science trick involving what happens when electricity is touched. The little monster never knew what hit him but nonetheless he was quiet for the remainder of the flight, leaving her at last undisturbed.

With only her carry-on and no luggage to hinder her continuance, she made one quick trip to freshen up in the ladies' room where she signed an autograph for a girl who identified her in spite of her dark sunglasses and make up free face. Not feeling that she was in the immediate position to play diva, Grace gave her what she wanted. The girl, no older than sixteen, prattled on for an endless minute about her favorite movie Grace starred in, all the while the actress did her best to keep cool through gritted teeth. As she stepped out of the airport, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver the co-ordinates to where she needed to go, then sank down low into the dingy back seat.

Here she took a time-out in the stale darkness behind the Plexiglas barrier to reflect once more on her darling Gabriel. The day she unveiled her special secret to him was fresh in her memory as if it was recent. Since the beginning she had known she was capable of creating and manipulating electricity; mother said the power was discovered when she was a toddler. She managed to get her toys to operate sans batteries or unplugged and once, when she did the normal experimentation with wall sockets, she attracted the volts and remained unscathed. Her father was petrified of what he'd spawned and abandoned Grace, the newborn Gabriel and their mother. Fear of added rejection forced Virginia Gray to bottleneck her daughter's ability, counseling her to keep the secret or suffer dire consequences. Mrs Gray unequivocally frightened her child with those doom sayer threats which made her hide herself even from Gabriel.

Except on that particular day when Gabriel attempted to reconstruct an experimentation of Thomas Jefferson and was failing miserably. Virginia was supposed to be helping him as she promised she would earlier in the week yet when Gabriel approached her about it she barked at him, insisting that she did not offer her assistance. However, in their mother's defense, she lost her job that day and was worried sick about how she was going to manage to feed her family; she'd locked herself in her bedroom and left her children to fend for themselves for a few days. Thankfully, Grace was twelve and Gabriel was eight at that time so they were able to watch out for each other fairly well without her.

Loss of an income was no excuse to snap at Gabe, Grace grudged. He was but a child, what did _he_ understand? All he knew was that his world was this science project which was due and his mother, who arranged to help, yelled at him for expecting her to waste her time on it. Reluctant to share her secret with him for fear of their mother's fatidic warnings of persecution even by Gabriel, she had a greater need to cheer up her little brother. Seeing how devastated her younger sibling was, she broke her latent talent to him by illuminating one of his light bulbs simply by holding it with her finger tips.

And Gabriel didn't run away terrified and screaming as mother predicted. Nor was he vindictive with name calling or finger-pointing accusations. Rather, he gawked at her in wonder, mouth open and glasses askew. He thought it was a magic trick.

"Do it again, Grace!" he requested, clapping his tiny hands.

So she did. She did her trick as often as he wanted her to and progressively showed him more. With age came Gabriel's unearthing that the magic she performed for him was not magic at all, that his sister was like a comic book character. In an effort to identify with her he bought and read stacks of numerous comics. The siblings bonded through Superman, Spiderman, Batman, and any other hero who tickled their fancy, sitting in his room at night reading them to each other before going to bed. Often, when their mother worked the night shift at the latest diner, the brother and sister would fall asleep in each other's arms during these readings which neither minded because they did not want to be alone any way.

And now Grace was the one who was alone. Poetic justice in that she initially left Gabriel to his own devices, just as she was left behind now. Remorse caused her heart to sting. She missed him badly!

"Here you are, miss," the driver announced as the cab pulled up in front of an apartment complex and stopped.

She scrabbled inside her purse, gave the appropriate fare plus tip, thanked the driver and climbed out of the car. It drove away and left her standing sullenly before the structure. This was the building that her mother had lived in, the apartment she moved into after Gabriel left home, the same apartment where she was rumored to have been murdered. Perhaps she would be able to find some sort of a clue inside as to what happened to her family.

With no key in her possession, she needed to use her gift to enter the security door. Checking to make certain that nobody was watching, she raised her hand to the box that contained all of the doorbells for each individual apartment. First her hand issued a blue light that glowed dimly but grew increasingly potent before tiny bolts of lightning danced between her fingers. Static crackled over the intercom system and Grace double checked the vicinity before touching her finger tips to the box and allowing the volts of electricity from her body to intensify. The currents spidered across the box, the static screeched louder and smoke billowed from the contraption before sparks sailed through the air and fire erupted, melting the circuitry. Shorted out, the security door clicked open and the tortured young woman stepped inside, not entirely prepared to witness what awaited her inside.

------------------------

There was a dreadful pounding in Claire's head, probably from lack of sleep, but she guessed that it couldn't be for that reason because she _was_ asleep. It ended up being someone knocking at the front door. Cracking open her eyes, she at first was disoriented then comprehended that she was still in the chair inside the sitting room at the Petrelli Mansion, a blanket covering her reposed form. The clack of the butler's shoes against the floor as he went to answer the door filled her ears; she perked up when she heard Noah Bennet's desperate voice asking for her.

"Dad?" she called, her voice scratchy from sleep. "I'm in here!"

"Claire?"

The relieved countenance Noah Bennet heralded when his eyes located his daughter was priceless as the two met half-way and embraced furiously. Claire swore that if she hadn't been indestructible then her ribs would've been crushed by the devoted arms that surrounded her. But his respite transformed into parental reproach when he freed her, grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and sternly advised: "What were you thinking?! Leaving the hotel to traipse around Manhattan in the middle of the night, not even leaving a note?! I didn't take you for being so irresponsible, Claire! Don't _ever_ leave like that again, young lady! Is that clear?"

"I'm sorry, dad, I am, but I couldn't bring myself to leave." Then in a lower voice: "Peter needs me and I'm the only one who cares about what happens to him."

"What makes you think that his own mother doesn't care?"

"Just a hunch…"

"What good could you possibly accomplish by coming here, Claire? It isn't your business any more."

Tears threatened to spill from her eyes as she peered at her dad, astounded at his unsympathetic reaction. Of all people, she expected _him_ to understand. She understood that she was wrong by frightening him with her disappearance but did Peter deserve to reap the repercussions of his family's bad intentions?

"_Dad!_ _How_ could you _say_ that? Peter is my _uncle_. That might not mean much to you but it means a lot to _me_. He isn't like the others and you know it. He saved my life. I owe it to him to return the favor."

"I understand your loyalty; you two have been through a great deal together but there is _nothing_ we can do…"

"Mr Bennet, we were expecting you," Angela Petrelli interrupted as she entered the room with the grace of a stalking panther. "Our dear Claire has yet again found her way back home to us Petrellis. It seems she is destined to stay put."

Noah seethed inwardly.

"If given an option I somehow don't think that staying here with you will be the choice she'd make," he caviled.

Angela raised a supercilious eyebrow.

"My Peter seems to be her anchor," she disclosed. "They've formed quite the bond to each other."

"So it seems," Noah accredited. "I appreciate you taking her in last night. I also appreciate everything that Peter had done for her. The Bennets will always be indebted to him for that. But she's had a very traumatic experience and needs to be in more familiar surroundings with the people who raised her."

"I'm not going _anywhere_," Claire obstinately persevered.

"Don't be irrational, Claire-Bear."

"I've called members of the press," Angela informed. "They should be here at any moment. We will release statements and a photograph of Peter that will be broadcasted over the television and in the papers. If Peter is alive and has healed enough to be coherent then someone is bound to recognize him. He'll be home before you know it."

Claire peered at her grandmother with newfound hope in her eyes.

"Can _I_ say something to them?" she requested.

Angela made another attempt to smile reassuringly at her granddaughter but the girl equated it to the grin of a piranha. There always seemed to be an ulterior motive in this household.

"I don't see why not," she answered.

Claire smiled an authentic smile.

"Thanks!" she breathed, then turned to her dad and said, "I _have_ to stay. At least for a while. I want to say what I have to say without complication."

Noah sighed, briefly thought it over then concededly nodded.

"I'll have to call home and inform your mother we'll be later than planned."

"Thanks, dad. It means a lot to me."

"I know it does, sweetheart."

The first of the gaggle of reporters arrived within the half hour. Noah chose to remove himself from the fray but stood within the doorway inside the next room, his keen eye trained profoundly upon his adopted daughter and her biological grandmother. Claire did not belong to the Petrellis. She shared their DNA and that was all. The entire argument for nature vs. nurture favored nurture in Claire's case, for she was nothing like the back-stabbing, two-faced Petrelli clan. A powerful family built on old money and shady politics, Peter was the sole member who strayed from its predestined legacy and they made certain that they punished him for it every chance they got.

Peter was the one who Claire took after despite who actually helped conceive her. Even though the two had never known each other until a few weeks ago, from mere observation it was apparent that she'd inherited the same compassion and sweet disposition that her idealist uncle possessed. Where Peter managed to ascertain all of those things from was a mystery, for no other member of his immediate family was like him. Except for Claire.

He realized that she wasn't being truculent, she simply loved her uncle. He watched as Claire spoke with the reporters, an expression of sick worry across her lovely face, her body language animate in true Italian fashion. Angela's previous stony expression crumbled before the cameras, putting on quite the worried-mother spectacle for the public eye. It was interesting to witness the contrast when he knew the truth. Removing himself from the dog and pony show, he stepped outside to make his phone call to Texas.

------------------------

Dave, Elle and Alex sat in a booth at the Eammons Avenue Roll n Roaster at lunch time, trying to figure out the strange events that were taking place. Elle and Dave, sitting beside each other, picked half-heartedly at cheese fries while Alex stared blankly at the lemon submerged in his lemonade.

"Maybe you're an extraterrestrial," suggested Elle before shoving a couple of fries into her mouth.

This revelation annoyed Alex who finally shifted in his seat.

"That's _ridiculous_, Elle, for fuck's sake! _How_ could he be an _alien_?"

Elle shrugged.

"I dunno," she retorted. "_How_ can he heal himself, turn invisible and stop you with his mind?" Something else occurred to her. "Hey! What if you didn't get hit by what fell from the sky? What if you _were_ what fell from the sky?!"

"Elle, your imagination is out of control," scolded Alex. "And please keep your voice down!"

Alex inspected the cafeteria-like room for any possible eavesdroppers and, satisfied that there were none, kicked her lightly underneath the table.

"_Again_," Elle started, ignoring the abusive kick, "if he can do all of what he can do then why _couldn't_ he be an alien?"

"Then where's my space ship?" asked Dave, tracing a fry through the cheese impassively.

"I dunno. Maybe you fell off while doing repairs." Alex made a noise of irritated amusement in his throat and Elle passed him an incredulous glare. "Well, do _you_ have any bright ideas, then?" she asked with conviction.

"I can't think of anything outside the illogical either," Dave spoke up. "No normal human being can do what I've done. Maybe I _am_ an alien. I mean, at this point, isn't it reasonable to say I'm…not like everybody else?"

"Great," Alex mumbled acrimoniously. "I leave the house for one minute, Elle, and you bring home an alien."

Elle rolled her eyes before focusing her attention back to the man in question.

"Hey, Dave, what else can you do?"

Dave gaped at her, stunned. "I don't know. I didn't even know I could do what I did until I did it. I guess it must be instinctual."

"I want to take you someplace secluded and experiment with you."

"See, that's why I didn't want to go to the hospital."

"Your instincts warned you not to go. Hey! Maybe you're psychic! Aliens are supposed to be telekinetic, aren't they? They can communicate with their minds by using psychic powers and stuff! Here! Tell me what I'm thinking right now!"

"I'm _not_ psychic." Then, with a contemplative expression, "At least I don't _think_ I am. And I suspect it wouldn't take one to know what _you're_ thinking."

Elle slapped his thigh playfully.

"The realm of possibilities is wide open for you, Dave."

"He's not an alien," Alex broke his vow of silence suddenly.

"Yeah, and he's not my lover either," Elle disdainfully wrote off, referring to Alex's earlier implication. Then looked at Dave with a sneaky smile and added, "Not yet, any way."

Dave was about to say something in response to her innuendo but was cut off by Alex.

"No, Elle, I mean it. He's _not_ an alien."

He pointed to the booth across the aisle from them where a newspaper was left strewn across the table. The front page headlines boldly screamed CONGRESSMAN'S BROTHER MISSING! with a full color portrait of Dave standing with another handsome man beneath.

Alex stared at the so-called extraterrestrial he shared the booth with in astonishment and concluded: "He's Peter Petrelli."

------------------------

**Author's Note:** Life's been keeping me far too busy lately (as I'm dealing with some really tough personal issues – hence, my neglect in posting at my LJ) but I _did_ manage to edit the next portion of _My Brother's Keeper_ as an escape-from-reality route. Hope you enjoyed; more to come, of course!


	3. Issue 3

----------------

"Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk."  
--Susan Scarf Merrell

Chapter 3

Yellow crime scene tape criss-crossed the entrance to Virginia Gray's apartment. It was a cinch to ignore its DO NOT CROSS warning and glide right in, but thick orange tape sealed the door shut, making it impassable.

_I _need_ to get in there! I _need_ to know what happened! I _have_ to see for myself!_

She searched the hallway to check that nobody was watching her - hell, they probably were while hidden behind the safety of their peep holes any way – as she reached up, took an end of the orange tape and ripped it off with the ruthless motion of a bikini waxer, unpeeling paint along with it. She repeated the process with the other two pieces, put the key she never before used into the lock and swung the door open.

Ahead of her, the apartment was a dark cavern of unknown possibilities and, being an artist of sorts, her creativity kicked into overdrive. Residual anger for her mother's neglect of Gabriel's needs made her lose the diminutive amount of commiseration she held for the woman but familial ties kept her hesitating at the door. It was the tender-hearted Gabriel who effortlessly acquitted their mother for her disregard of him and stayed behind in Queens to manage their father's clock shop Gray & Sons, and assist her when she needed help with the rent or groceries or simple conversation and visitation while Grace made her pilgrimage west to feed her appetite. Gabriel gave their mother everything and she gave very little in return. But that was Gabriel: a giver rather than a taker.

Inhaling deeply, she stepped underneath the yellow tape that was left intact and slipped inside, carefully shutting the door behind her. Gingerly she continued on into the depths of the cluttered, outdated apartment, gazing upon the carnage that had been left behind. Pieces from mom's snow globe collection were shattered; water pooled in precarious puddles across the floor which was warped in various places where the water had seeped in. A chalk outline of where their mother's body had been found accompanied blood stains on the floor.

Then she saw it: a massive drawing of a mushroom cloud billowing over the Manhattan cityscape painted on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. Worse, it was done in a reddish brown fluid she knew in her soul to be blood…evidently her mother's blood. Now her stomach wrenched.

"My god!" she muttered. "What the hell happened here?!"

----------------

Elle wrinkled her nose as if a foul stench permeated the air.

"Who's Peter Petrelli?" she questioned.

"Apparently _I_ am," Dave/Peter replied, snatching the paper and ogling his own likeness, the likeness he remembered seeing reflected in the medicine cabinet mirror the night prior.

"Congressman Nathan Petrelli's brother," Alex educated. "That's who's in the picture with you, Peter. Don't you know anything about the people who control your country, Elle?"

"Damn, Alex, it's not like _I_ can control _them_, so just relax!" She cursed under her breath.

"Ever hear of voting?" returned the elder brother.

"What_ever!_ If you knew Nathan Petrelli so well then why didn't _you_ recognize Peter yourself?"

"Then I guess a lot of people must be looking for me," Peter interjected before Alex could reply to his sister's provocation. "At least this solves the mystery of my name so you can stop calling me Dave."

"I _like_ calling you Dave."

He smiled at her sweetly, crookedly.

"Then maybe _you_ exclusively can still call me Dave," he told her softly.

Peter felt a close kinship to his young saviour, as if she were the sister he markedly did not have.

"Maybe you're a mutant," Elle suggested, "and your family wants you back because you were their lab rat or something. Or maybe _they_ did something to you to make you this way."

"This isn't a comic book," Alex insisted irritably. "This is real life."

"Could've fooled me." She thought for a few seconds then asked: "Why do you suppose that every comic book character's first and last names seem to end in the same letter? Well, Clark Kent has different letters but the same sound. But look at what I mean: Lex Luthor, Lana Lang, Peter Parker, Susan Storm, Otto Octavius, Reid Richards…Peter Petrelli…"

Peter looked at her and offered a half smile.

"At least now you know who to go back to," Alex offered. "Once you're home you should be able to regain your memory. Or at least you'll have a better chance at it, since you'd be surrounded by your own environment and people who know who you are."

"That makes sense," Peter agreed.

"What does the article say about you?"

Peter skimmed the concise columns quickly, picking out information relevant to his immediate personal life sans his family.

"I'm twenty-six, the brother of Congressman Nathan Petrelli, father of Dominic and Angela Petrelli…oh."

"What?" Elle asked, for his drop in tone then abrupt silence alarmed her.

"My occupation was a…nurse. A _hospice_ nurse."

Alex snorted, sending lemonade through his nose while Elle released a short bark of mirthful laughter.

"Hey, I suppose there _are_ male nurses," she stated. "We know of at least _one_! I have a better name to call you than Dave! I'll call you Florence!"

Peter gave her a death glare of insult.

"Don't you dare," he said defensively.

"How did a guy who comes from such a powerful family wind up being a _nurse_?" Alex teased.

"It's a calling for someone who wants to help people in need, who can't help themselves," Peter answered lightly but seriously, decidedly unbothered by their gibes. "I like helping others. _That_ much I can sense about myself."

They fell silent and, humbled by Peter's comeback, Elle toyed with the few fries left by stabbing the cooling cheese with them and Alex swirled the melting ice and fissiparous lemon in his lemonade with the straw. Elle excused herself to venture to the counter for a Snapple while Peter continued to silently read.

One thing that grabbed his undivided attention from the article was that he had a young teenaged niece factored into the story who "loved him very much" and begged for his safe return or any information helpful in leading to it. This scrap of information made his heart throb anxiously with elation.

Someone_ out there cares about me and wants me alive!_ Claire! Her name was Claire! His mind soared at the prospective of what she looked like and what kind of a person she was. They must have a strong bond, he concluded, for her to make such an earnest plea.

"At least I have a destination point now," Peter continued. "I can go home. The truth is waiting for me there."

Elle, returning with her Snapple, was not as persuaded.

"Are you sure of that?" questioned the girl.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think you should go back to the Petrellis so hastily. We don't know the circumstances behind what happened to you. They could be the ones responsible. Maybe you pissed them off because you're so removed from what they are. Maybe they consider you a disgrace because of your profession. Maybe they felt as if you were some sort of liability to them and they hurt you in some way. Maybe they wrote you off as a freak and tried to kill you."

"But they're my _family_. If I can't trust them who _can_ I trust?"

"You can trust _me_. And Alex, I guess. We're tried and true. The Petrellis…you can't be certain of. Haven't you ever watched daytime TV and seen how large, wealthy families are so…decayed? Please. Don't go back just yet. I have a bad feeling about it."

"I hate to say it, but I think Elle might be right," Alex complied. "We don't know the conditions of what happened and you could be in trouble."

"But where do I go if I shouldn't go home?" wondered Peter.

"You can stay with me. We didn't start off on the right foot but…"

"I can't go home either," interrupted Elle. "They're looking for me too."

Alex gave her a doubtful look but Peter spoke up.

"She's right. Her picture was all over the news."

Alex sighed but there was no way around what he needed to do.

"Well, I guess you're both on the lam and I'll be in trouble for harbouring a pair of fugitives."

"Thanks, Alex!" Elle exclaimed. "You're the best, bro!"

"Let's get outta here before we're noticed," suggested Peter, ripping the front page from the rest of the paper so he could keep the picture of himself and Nathan and sticking it into his pocket.

The siblings readily obliged.

----------------

Distraught by the wrecked state of her mother's stuffy, obsolete apartment, Grace was consumed by the enormity of what took place in her absence. The detective she spoke with on the phone hadn't mentioned the painting in blood. It was probably one of those details best told in person and if she hadn't illegally gone to check things out for herself then she wouldn't have known until her meeting with the detective later in the day. It was better to find out when she was alone, she believed; she didn't like expressing emotions in front of others and this would've been too unsettling to be informed on in the presence of a stranger.

She sat in a chair and stared at the encompassing carnage, her mind vacant of thoughts to the extent that it grew numb, making her feel disembodied. Who could've hated her mother to _this_ level? Grace didn't hate her mother as much as she held a grudge against her. Virginia had been a quiet woman who kept to herself, a female version of Gabriel in that aspect. She was a near recluse, barely seen by even her neighbours next door. Certainly Gabriel was her only visitor in the years Grace was away.

But someone had taken Gabriel's life too. The possibilities appeared limitless. Her mother could've already had an unwelcome visitor inside her home that Gabe coincidentally interrupted, therefore increasing the killer's morbid wealth of victims by sharing their mother's fate. If Virginia's death disturbed her then Gabriel's demise drove her over the brink of madness. Distraught beyond reason, her chest heaved as she breathed rapidly in effort to control the sobs threatening to pour from her. Rising from the chair, she heatedly stomped into the other rooms of the apartment in search of any sign linked to Gabriel's death.

The chalk outline was far too small to be representative of the imposing frame of her younger brother so it was easy to conclude that whatever happened to him had to have been done in another room. It was possible he'd been caught unprepared while doing something in the bedroom. That was precisely what must've happened; Gabe may have been mousey in his manner of dress and mien but he was big and strong enough to fend someone off in a fair fight or to scare an intruder away after getting a good look at him.

A generous amount of tears now flowing from her eyes, she frantically searched the bedroom, yet for all of her efforts she indicated not one trace of a struggle or that anyone else other than Virginia and her murderer were even in the room for that matter. Angry, she stormed into the second bedroom, the guest room where Gabriel slept whenever he needed to spend the night, expecting to see the second chalk outline. Nothing was there. Everything was untouched, not a speck of dust out of place.

"_Damn it!_" she shouted in anguish, wiping the wetness from her face. "Where did he get you, Gabriel?"

The bathroom!

Controlled by a mad panic as if she were saving her brother's life rather than examining the end to it, she dashed off into the bathroom but was met with the same cleanliness found in the other rooms. This wholly befuddled her.

"The detective said you were murdered, Gabe," she said to her brother's phantom. "When he told me that you and mom were both killed…I imagined it was while you were together." A horrid solution struck her. "What if he killed you at _your_ place? But _why_ would he do that? If you were _here_…and he followed you to kill you _there_…but returned here to kill mom…or maybe mom was killed before you got here?"

She screamed in bitter frustration.

"_None_ of this makes _sense_!" she cried.

Then she remembered the cell phone in her purse. While at the bar in LAX she'd programmed the detective's name and number into her address book because she knew she would need it. Eagerly, she emptied the contents of the purse on the floor so she wouldn't waste time searching for the cursed thing and, with unsteady hands, she pressed the speed dial number for Detective Ryan Archer.

_He _did_ say to call if I needed to speak with him!_ she excused herself.

"Detective Archer?" she addressed once the man answered. "It's Grace Mor-Grace Gray. Yes, my family…Well, I'm rather confused as to what exactly happened. Yes, I _know_ you told me that you would fill me in on the details later but I _can't_ wait. I _need_ to know. It's eating me alive, detective. I _have_ to know what happened to my Ga- my brother." As she listened to the detective, her fingers fidgeted nervously against her thigh and she realized she hadn't felt this way since her first casting call. "I can be there. Give me about a half an hour. Thanks."

She disengaged, feeling better for making the call. Archer would be less than thrilled to discover that she had entered the closed-off crime scene and invariably contaminating evidence, but she planned to keep that secret. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Nevertheless, she felt entitled to be in the apartment. She had lost her entire family, after all, and she wanted to know who to personally thank for that.

----------------

Wringing her hands and pacing the floor, Claire watched as her savvy grandmother continued giving statements to the press in the sitting room. Overwrought by the situation on hand, she decided that fresh air would be good for her and, excusing herself, stepped out onto the front porch, her dad trailing and calling after her.

Not stopping, she slowed so he could catch up as she slipped around the bend, pressing against the side of the mansion in effort to escape the reporters. They walked onward into the backyard until they were hidden from sight. She halted to face him, the distress of paradoxical love written all over her girlish face.

"I can't leave yet," she persisted.

"I knew you were going to tell me that," he acknowledged with a forlorn sigh.

He hoped that it would be untrue if he said it aloud but she said it for him.

"I still don't feel comfortable leaving Peter here to fend for himself," she continued. "Because that's exactly what will happen. He needs me. I'm afraid for his safety."

"I know you share a potent bond with Peter, but Claire, this is a family matter. One that you aren't directly involved in. Peter is an adult. He can care for himself."

"I'm not even worried too much about him right now. It's _after_ he's found that worries me. His mother is blaming him for what happened to my father and I think she's going to hurt him in some way."

Noah gave the young woman a very stern, parental look.

"You don't honestly believe that Angela Petrelli would do something to hurt her own son, do you?"

Claire gazed at him with shock that such words had come from his mouth.

"She _knew_ that he was going to explode and was willing to let him live with the consequences knowing what it would do to him. She _doesn't_ _care_ about Peter. I have a biological tie to Nathan but my bond with Peter is stronger than blood. I _can't_ let him get hurt, dad. Not after all that he's done for me."

Noah stepped closer to her, placed a hand on her shoulder and confided, "I was informed of a meteor that crashed down in Brighton Beach last night soon after the explosion."

The implication of his statement filled Claire's eyes with optimism.

"Peter!" she breathed

"Don't get your hopes up, Claire. I can't make any guarantees that it was actually him."

"I don't care! It means that there's hope. But it's just a matter of time before Angela Petrelli discovers this for herself. We need to get to Peter before she does and now we've got a sort of lead."

"What do you propose in telling Angela to excuse your absence?"

"Leave it to me. I'll think of something."

----------------

Peter sat on the shabby sofa in Alex's dark apartment trying to ignore Elle's big brother as he stared holes into him from the rickety lawn chair adjacent to where him. Elle was in the bedroom fishing around for something; whatever it was he didn't know as she half-muttered it while she walked passed. A few elongated moments of his uncomfortable squirming later she returned, a stack of comic books in her hands. Plopping down next to Peter and between the men, she opened the top book and began reading.

"What's that?" he asked innocently to break the ice.

"Comic," she answered distantly. "_9__th__ Wonders!_. I _love_ it."

"_9__th__ Wonders!_?"

The title struck a familiar chord in Peter.

"Yeah. It's by this artist Isaac Mendez. I met him once at a comic con. He signed a first release, first issue for me that I have framed in my room. He's hot."

"Isaac Mendez." He pondered the surging impulses which the name sent rippling through his body. Angry, desperate, sad. "Why does that name feel like it means something to me?"

"Maybe you like comic books too."

"Let me see those."

He took the rest of the stack beneath the open one in her lap and flipped through them. It appeared that they were about a young Japanese man named Hiro Nakamura who was destined to save the world from a ferocious villain…_why_ did all of this seem so indelible?! Maybe Elle was right and he used to read comics. Yet it felt more profound than that, as if there was something very authentic being whispered to him beyond the fiction on the vividly coloured pages. Furthermore, even if he did read these books that did not excuse the intense negative feelings toward the name Isaac Mendez.

He stared at the name printed in bold black comic book font on the inside back cover, as pensive as a Buddhist monk in meditation. Beneath was an address of 215 Reed Street. Beside it was a picture of the handsome, scruffy artist himself.

"See?" Elle broke his distrait concentration. "He's hot."

"If you like that sort of thing…"

"What sort of thing?"

"The dark, mysterious type."

Elle released a sharp bark of laughter.

"Yeah, because _you're_ sooooo removed from that. _Dave_."

Peter peeked up from the comic to give her a mischievous smirk which she returned then he went back to intently look at Mendez's picture.

"Maybe he was your lover," suggested the wily fangirl. "I don't know _what_ I would do if _that_ ended up being true: die of disappointment or die of happiness."

"Why would you die of happiness?"

"Because I'd want to watch."

"Stop being disgusting, Elle," griped Alex.

"Shut up, don't you have some lesbians to watch? God!"

"She may have a point," Peter said. When he saw the prospect spread across Elle's pretty face and the disgust on Alex's, he readily clarified, "Not that I'm gay or Isaac Mendez's lover but maybe _he_ knows me. The name brought back strong feelings for me. His picture and these books are familiar, like I'm acquainted with them in some way."

"Next you'll be saying the Matrix rewound," Elle commented smartly.

Peter gave her a puzzled look. Plainly he didn't understand what she was referring to, yet he soldiered on any way.

"Regardless of what my connection is with him, my gut feeling tells me that there _is_ one. He might be able to give me some answers. Maybe before I decide to go back home I should pay Isaac Mendez a visit."

Elle's eyes went ablaze.

"You are _so_ taking me with you, Dave!" Then aware that she mistaken slipped back into her pet name for him in front of her brother, she smiled sheepishly and corrected, "I meant Peter."

Peter glanced at Alex who was in a sleepy daze and nearly toppling over in the frail chair he was in. Though Alex was paying attention, he was too exhausted to protest.

"I'll need a guide," he told his protector's elder sibling. "I don't trust my memory will get me to where I need to go without help."

Alex cleared his throat and groggily straightened his posture.

"I suppose it's a good idea to let her go with you," he agreed. "What trouble can you guys get into by going to a comic book artist's apartment?"

Elle became disgruntled.

"You know, Alex, I _am_ twenty-three. I _don't_ need _your_ permission to go _anywhere_. I never needed it before and I sure as hell don't need it now.

"Don't be mad at him, Elle," Peter unexpectedly scolded. "He's only watching out for you." Then he grew distant, lost in thought as he added, "Like a big brother is supposed to."

He snapped from his stupor with a start when Alex spoke: "I'd go with you but I'm too exhausted to move. Elle, behave. I don't have the time or the money to bail you out of jail for trying to hump Isaac Mendez's leg."

"Get real, Alex," Elle snarled jadedly. "I'd have to be a _boy_ to be able to do that." Then, turning to Peter, urged, "But _you_ feel free to do that, Pete."

Peter's eyes rolled slightly.

"Sure, Elle," he replied. "Your wish is my command."

Elle's eyes lit up with glee once more.

"Can we go _now_? _Let's go_ _now!_"

"I guess the sooner we can figure out what's going on the better. Besides, I'm starting to feel guilty for imposing on Alex."

Peter motioned towards his host who again was hazardously slumped down in the lawn chair, snoring softly as he snoozed.

"We've kept him awake for too long already," Peter confessed guiltily.

"OK, then, forget my brother. Let's go check out that hot piece of ass artist. Maybe I can get him to sign my boob or something."

But Peter remained fixed in place as Elle pranced passed him, the bundle of comics in her arms as she opened the entrance to the apartment and sauntered out into the hall. When she noticed that he did not follow she poked her head back inside.

"Coming?" she questioned.

He replied in the affirmative and exited the apartment, ready to begin his journey of self-discovery.

----------------

Grace ripped into the precinct with the disquieting force of a tornado funnel touching down. A few others were already waiting on the grungy public side of the front desk but they were irrelevant to her quest so she dismissed them as nonexistent. A black woman of portly proportions complained but Grace shot her an undeterred glower of reproach, her eyes scintillating the electricity that awaited her command. Taken aback by the unexpected display, the woman sank deeper into her chair and quieted.

"Excuse me," Grace loudly addressed the officers behind the desk, receiving their attention immediately. "I'm looking for a Detective Ryan Archer."

"I'm Detective Archer," a handsome middle aged man sitting at a desk in the far corner informed. "You must be Grace Gray."

"Yes, I am."

"I'll buzz you in. Enter through the door on your left."

Grace ogled the thick security door he was referring to and cringed in disgust. A cockroach crawled up the face of the door, its copper body glinting in the muted light of the room, making the insect prominent against the peeling grey paint. A loud buzz reverberated in the room and the movie star unenthusiastically grabbed the handle by covering her palm with the end of her sleeve, turned it and yanked the heavy door open, slipping inside as quickly as possible just for the opportunity to be relinquished of the common filth.

Wiping her sleeve compulsively against the leg of her jeans, she began walking without paying attention and bumped directly into Archer. Excusing herself, she found her hand engaged in a reflexive handshake with the detective before she was cognizant of it.

"Follow me to a more private location and we'll talk," he instructed.

She nodded and trailed him through a long hallway to its end where he opened a door, motioning for her to enter first. It was an interrogation room, which made her feel clammy as if she was the one who'd done something wrong. Unlike many others brought into this room she _was_ innocent and had nothing to fear, unlike the bastard who killed her brother and got away with it. As of yet, any how. Nevertheless, it was compunction which made her squirm because the only real reason she came to this hellhole was to get details on a matter she intended on handling alone in her own special way.

"Am _I_ in trouble or something?" she half-joked.

Archer smiled reassuringly but it was too well-practiced for Grace's liking.

"Not at all. It's quiet in here and we're alone. We don't want anybody else to overhear your private affairs. Please, have a seat."

She did and Archer sat across from her. Her face expressed impatient hope and he was resigned at noticing it.

"Can I get you anything? Something to drink?"

"No, no thank you." She paused, giving him some leeway before she pounced. "I don't understand what happened to my family," she said, hoping her poker face masked her wrong doing effectively. "Have you found the son of a bitch who did this to my brother?"

Archer dropped his gaze to the table and grew silent. With twenty-two years as a cop he never seemed to be able to immunize himself against breaking bad news to family members. None of them ever did get immune to it.

"Yes, Miss Gray," he started off slowly, gently, "we _do_ have the person who did this to your family."

Grace's face lit up with ecstatic joy then just as quickly darkened again.

"Good,' she replied through clenched teeth. "I want him to suffer an excruciating death."

"Miss Gray…The person who killed your mother? It was your brother."

A dead silence befell the room as Grace lost herself in what she just learned. An empty pit swelling inside her stomach, she communicated her disbelief through several painful blinks. She _refused_ to believe this nonsense.

"Wh-what? My _brother_? _Gabriel?_ You're mistaken. Gabriel would _never_ do something so heinous. He's not a _killer_. You didn't _know_ him. He was sweet in disposition; it was against his nature to be a killer. He wouldn't even kill a spider let alone our mother…"

"His fingerprints were the only ones in your mother's apartment other than her own."

Despondent, Grace covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

"Your mother was stabbed in the chest with a pair of scissors," Archer tentatively continued. "There was a struggle. Her fingerprints were the only ones on the scissors, indicating she was probably using them to defend herself."

Grace looked at the detective with newfound hope.

"Maybe it was an accident then," she offered. "Maybe he didn't mean to kill her and then he went home to kill himself because he couldn't bear to live with himself for it."

Archer sighed long.

"There was a painting in your mother's blood on the kitchen floor. Because of it, we don't speculate that this was in accident. That morbid painting wouldn't exist if it was an accident." He briefly stopped speaking to let the woman take it all in. Opting to change the subject slightly he declared, "Your brother didn't kill himself."

Again Grace looked puzzled.

"He didn't?"

Archer confirmed with a head shake.

"Have you heard about the death in Kirby Plaza?"

She shook her head. "No. Was it Gabriel?"

"It was, yes. Someone ran a sword clean through him. He bled to death. Apparently he went on a rampage and attacked several people who claim it was self-defense. We are looking deeper into the matter."

"This is far too much for me to comprehend all at once. I'm sorry. My brother, who was the gentlest person I've ever known, murdered my mother, attacked a group of people and then was murdered himself. Murdered by a man with a _sword_, of all things?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Gray."

Tears streamed down Grace's face freely but noiselessly and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. In one frail attempt to console herself, she resorted to sarcastically asking, "Is it customary for New Yorkers to carry around swords?"

"We're a great melting pot, Miss Gray."

"Can I please see him at least?" she requested. "I need to say good-bye."

"Of course. I'll drive you to the morgue myself."

"What did the witnesses in Kirby Plaza have to say?"

"There was nothing much to tell. Your brother was walking through the plaza when he went berserk."

Grace gazed at the detective doubtfully.

"Gabriel just randomly attacked people."

"According to the witnesses, yes. He attacked one particular person but we are at the moment trying to locate him. He seemed to have gone missing."

There was a pause as Grace tried to sort everything out and take in what she was being told.

"Could you please keep me posted?" she asked. "If you find that so-called victim who Gabriel supposedly attacked or if there are any new developments I want to know _every_ detail."

"I'll tell you all that I can."

"I want to know everything. _Everything_. No equivocations or exceptions."

Archer felt that arguing with the abrasive woman would be fruitless so he nodded compliance.

"Let's head over to the morgue," he suggested. "You need to say your good-byes."

"Yes, let's do that."

They rose from their chairs and Grace followed him back up the hallway to the front desk. The woman who protested previously was at the front desk window raising a holy hell that she had "arrived before that woman" and "it was bullshit that she was seen first!" But the objection ceased when Grace stepped into view, their eyes met icily and the intimidated woman slunk back to her seat without another word.

"Just a minute," Archer muttered to his lovely charge.

Grace nodded as Archer returned to his desk in the corner where she originally found him and spent her time skimming the wanted and missing person's posters tacked up on the corkboard beside her. She smiled deliberately as she noted that every wanted poster sported the hardened faces of men; they were all races but they belonged to a single sex. The missing posters were polar opposites. The majority of them were female, of course, with punctuations of male children.

One stood out amongst the scores of others, however, because it was of a regular man. A good looking man, dark haired with long bangs swept into his large, hazel eyes and full heart-shaped lips with a slight crook. At five-foot-nine and one hundred and forty pounds, he was a small waif of a man and Grace hypothesized that perhaps a much bigger opponent might've done him great harm. It couldn't have taken much to overpower _this_ one. Intrigued, she read his name. Peter Petrelli. It is said that when a man disappears it's because he doesn't want to be found. This one must've gotten into some serious trouble. She wondered what secrets Peter Petrelli was running away from.

"Ready, Miss Gray?" Archer interrupted her thoughts, jingling car keys before him.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she sighed.

They exited through the disgusting security door again and passed the heavyset woman who didn't bother to make eye contact with the glowering movie star this time.

----------------

The drive into Lower Manhattan was a harrowing ordeal, as there was no true difference between how Elle drove the night before when she first found Peter and the way she drove now, weaving through traffic on the Belt Parkway then the Gowanus, through the Brooklyn Battery and on into Manhattan. Peter thought he was going to have a coronary by the time they reached Reed Street but, too grateful for everything the young woman did for him, made no complaint. Instead he simply held on white-knuckle tight and dealt with it.

When she managed to miraculously locate a parking space on the street he all but leapt out of the Versa, thankful to have his feet planted back on solid pavement. Tempted to kiss the ground, he decided it would be too extreme and refrained. Elle strolled over, grabbed his hand and without uttering a word led him two blocks down. He followed like a child without question, unconditionally trusting her every move before she stopped and pointed to a tall building.

"There it is," she informed him. "There it is! That's 215 Reed Street. Simone Deveaux better _not_ be there. Watch out, Isaac, here I come!"

Again she picked up her pace, this time quickening it. As he followed her to the building and inside, another wave of familiarity crashed over Peter at mention of the name Deveaux. An incredibly strong sentiment raised inside him different from the one at mention of Isaac's name. If he and Isaac Mendez had known each other and that was the owners' name of the building in which he dwelled, he doubted it would've returned such an impressively positive feeling inside him. Mendez's name evoked quite the opposite. Then what was the link with the Deveaux name? Was it simply a connection with Mendez or was it something more tantalizing? The world spun around him in a kaleidoscope of emotions that served to only make him more anxious.

They entered but learned nothing new from the rows of mailboxes; thanks to the address in the comic they were aware that Mendez occupied Loft 7. Minimal investigative work by questioning the doorman uncovered that Loft 7 was on the top floor penthouse level. With Elle's display of gratitude as a proclamation of "Thanks, pops!" they caught the elevator up, Elle jauntily pressing the PH button and fidgeting anxiously as the car began to rise.

"Stand still!" ordered Peter in a whisper. "You're making _me_ nervous."

"I can't help it! Give a girl in lust a break, will you?"

His mouth formed his askew smile emoting affection as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze meant to calm her.

Within moments, the car stopped and the doors slid open.

"Well," Peter said softly, half timidly and half reluctantly. "Here we are. Let's get this over with."

They stepped out of the car and walked along the hallway with ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking Lower Manhattan until they reached the door to Loft 7 only to find it already ajar. The same gigantic windows that were on one side of the hallway also comprised the front wall of Mendez's loft and the darkness within indicated that there was no-one at home…or something was amiss.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Peter professed. "Maybe you should wait out here or go back downstairs to the lobby."

"Nuh uh. I'm a wanted woman too and what if I get caught downstairs? Besides, whatever is in there that's dangerous for me, it's equally dangerous for you."

Not bothering to remind her that he had the ability to survive death through rapid tissue regeneration, he chose to get things done sooner by nodding and advising, "Just stay as close to me as you can."

Elle grinned roguishly and, plastering her body against his backside, agreed, "Whatever you say, Dave."

Ignoring her smart alecky comment, he inched the loft door open, stuck his head into the dark room and called out: "Hello! Isaac Mendez? It's Peter Petrelli! I need to speak with you! It's urgent!"

His calls were met with silence.

Peter muttered, "This _really_ doesn't feel right." Then he whispered: "_Stay close!_"

"Alright! Relax!"

Peter widened the crack left in the creaky door and took a few guarded steps inside, Elle glued close behind.

"Watch your step," Peter warned like a big brother and reached behind him to encircle her wrist in his protective grip.

They crept deeper into the pitch black loft, Peter feeling out their way with an extended hand. There was no sign of anyone at all. Their progress came to a precipitous impediment when Peter's shin met something hard and, seeing stars, he exclaimed his pain with a strangled "Ouch!"

"Shhh!" hissed Elle.

"Watch it, there're some steps up ahead."

Gingerly they descended those stairs and reached what Peter realized was the studio portion of the loft, as silhouettes of easels and canvasses were dotted all over the dark room.

"Isaac?" Peter called again. "It's Peter Petrelli! Are you th-"

There was a squeaking sound as the rubber sole of Peter's borrowed sneakers slid in something wet, nearly causing the amnesiac to fall to the floor like Bambi taking his first steps until he recovered his balance.

"What the hell?!" he murmured.

"Be careful!" demanded Elle, who he slightly tumbled backwards against.

"I'm trying! There's something wet on the floor!"

"I don't think anybody's here. And _what_ is that _smell_?!"

"I don't know. Stand right here. _Don't_ move."

"Where are you going?"

"To shed a little light on the subject."

He ventured back up the steps until he reached the door again. Extending his hand, Peter found purchase against a switch.

"Great. A switch," he announced. "And on the first day God separated the dark from the light."

Peter snapped the switch up and light flooded the room in torrents from the high ceilings above.

"Oh my god!" gasped Elle, clutching wildly at the rail alongside the stairs.

Peter turned to see what the matter was and ended up taking a step back with eyes agape when he saw it. Isaac Mendez, comic book extraordinaire and eye candy for Elle Miasnikov was sprawled across the floor with his arms outstretched from his sides, paintbrushes nailed through his wrists effectively finishing off the artist as a grisly imitation Christ in a mock simulacrum created by an absent killer. The top of Mendez's head had been removed and his brain missing. The blood trail from this mortal wound was what Peter had slid in; shoe tracks led away from the smeared path to where he currently stood. A gun lay close by but obviously didn't do a wealth of good for the hapless artist. Beneath his corpse on the floor stretched a mural of doomsday in Manhattan, a thick black, yellow and red mushroom cloud billowing over the Empire State Building and the rest of Midtown Manhattan. Peter instantly recalled the dream of his body glowing and his throat grew tight.

"I'm going to be sick," Elle publicized with a faltering voice then covered her mouth with a hand, fighting back the gag reflex.

"Not here!" Peter demanded, rushing back down the stairs to her side. "You'll be leaving your DNA behind! The last thing we need is the cops to find out we were here."

"Obviously the police don't know about this yet." She gasped. "Peter, we _have_ to call the police!"

He nodded, his eyes never straying from the ghastly sight before them.

"Not now though," he instructed. "Wait until we leave. And leave the tip anonymously."

"Duh, Dave."

"The person who did this could still be here."

"Uh uh. He's ripe. He's been here for some time. The smell…"

"Yeah."

"Oh, man, _my poor baby!_ I never got the chance to have a meaningless sex romp with him!"

Elle's comment went unheard for Peter's eyes found something else that numbed his body with marvel. Nearby and displayed on a sturdy makeshift wooden easel was a painting slashed in half. The figure in the painting was leaping from a rooftop and suspended in flight but it was decapitated by the laceration, the top half lying on its side in front of the easel. Peter stared at it, squinting in scepticism.

"Is that…_me_?" he inquired.

"What's you?"

"In the painting over there." His eyes swept the studio and he found that there were several other paintings depicting his likeness. "Almost _all_ of them are of…of _me!_"

Elle gazed around the room at the plethora of artwork and nodded agreement.

"Yeah, they kinda _do_ look like you. I guess this confirms that he knows – _knew_ - you."

"Looks that way."

"These others are of a few of his comic book characters. But look at _this_ one."

She pointed to a particular piece depicting two men in black squaring off with a large spiral stepped red sculpture in the background. One of the men was Peter, the other carried the aura of an ominous menace.

"It's you again," she assessed. "With another man in Kirby Plaza. But this one's _not_ a Mendez."

"Are you sure?"

Elle flashed him an incredulous look.

"If _anyone_ knows Isaac Mendez's work, it's _me_."

"You're right, you're right," he acceded, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. Then it struck him. "Wait. Are you _sure_ that we're in Kirby Plaza in the painting?"

"Positive. I recognize the sculpture in the back. Plus it has Kirby Plaza written across it. Duh."

"Why does Kirby Plaza sound familiar?"

"I dunno. According to the painting you were there."

Peter suddenly grew excited.

"I remember now!" he exclaimed. "I heard it on the news last night. It was where that man was stabbed to death with the sword after he attacked those people!"

"Oh my god!"

Her unexpected outburst alarmed him.

"What?!"

"Remember how we were kidding around about you being able to tell the future? Well, what if that's what _Isaac_ could do? I mean, look at this stuff. Snap things into place. He painted _his own death_. Not just an imagining…he painted every minute detail. Unless an accomplice removed his brain then he was murdered. I mean, an artist who could paint the future isn't _too_ far fetched considering what _you_ can do."

Peter and Elle looked into each other's eyes, fully understanding the magnitude of the story they'd been living.

"So," Elle continued, "what could this painting with you and this dude in Kirby Plaza mean? What if this guy is the one who was killed with the sword? Maybe _you_ were the one who killed him!"

"Then where's the sword?"

"Maybe it melted when you were hit by that meteor. Maybe you were at the beach that night because you were thinking about what you did."

"Wouldn't someone notice if I carried a sword around with me on the streets?"

"I don't know. It _is_ New York. And with you we need to think outside of the box."

"Maybe you're right. Everything fits. If I killed this man, whoever he is, then maybe I was the one who killed Isaac Mendez too."

His voice dropped, tinged with disappointment in himself that he would actually be capable of killing another human being. Although he knew nothing about his past he wanted to believe that he respected the life of others.

"Maybe it was self defense," Elle offered sympathetically, taking his hand into hers to demonstrate that she trusted him. "Don't be hard on yourself. We don't know the whole story yet. Besides, it doesn't _feel_ right. You don't seem like a killer."

Peter surveyed the loft and distinguished that there were paintings of other people as well: a few of two Japanese men at a casino, several self-portraits of Mendez as a corpse, one of an attractive blonde woman with an odd tattoo looking over her shoulder and a case of money in front of her. The monopoly of the work depicted either Peter making use of one of his powers or a lovely blonde teenaged cheerleader in both heroic and victimized scenarios. Although the ones with the cheerleader provoked warm feelings of affection, his attention was drawn mainly to Mendez's self-portraits.

"He painted his death," observed Peter. "How can he paint his own death so accurately?"

Elle shrugged.

"How can he paint his own death like that period?" she asked. "He couldn't have done that to himself on his own."

The spellbound Peter gave no response but instead stepped forward, away from Elle and across the room to the only unpainted canvass in the studio.

"What are you doing?" Elle questioned.

Ignoring her still, Peter picked up a paintbrush and a palette with half-dried paints lying on a table next to the empty canvass and stood before it. Strange: he knew he was a rightie and yet he held the paintbrush in his left hand, prepared to paint. His head cocked slightly to the side as he stared at the empty space before him, seeing a picture only he could see splash itself across the canvass.

"Yeah, OK…_Dave_?" Elle addressed, frightened strain in her voice. "You're totally freaking me out, dude. You tell _me_ not to puke because I'd leave evidence but you decide it's OK to go all Van Gogh on me and paint a picture."

Elle grimaced with confusion as Peter began to do exactly what she predicted: dabbing the bristles of the brush into one of the paints, he set to work earnestly, feverishly. Elle moved forward herself, eyes never drifting from the handsome young man as he diligently and automatically worked. Walking around to look at his face, she gasped when she saw that his eyes were clouded over with thin milky cataracts. Instantly understanding that this was obviously one more freaky thing that Peter was capable of doing, she simply stood back and watched in awe as a picture formed beneath his manic brush strokes. When it finished, Peter dropped the paintbrush and swooned as the cataracts vanished from his eyes, the trance lifted.

"What happened?" he asked, peering at his paint-splattered hand.

"I don't exactly know. You just started painting while in some sort of trance. You're _weird!_ You painted with your _left_ hand and you're _right-handed_. Oh, and you had these spooky Evil Dead eyes. They were kinda hot. By the way, you painted _that_."

Both pairs of eyes gawked at the wet painting gleaming in the sunlight before them. It was of a woman with arms outstretched to the ceiling of a room, surrounded by abundant bolts of lightning.

----------------

"Are you ready?"

Archer's query was meant to prepare her but no amount of time could prepare anyone to confront the death of a loved one. The seasoned detective knew this too but he habitually asked any way. It was the right thing to do. With a deep intake of breath Grace nodded. The medical examiner reached out for the handle of the refrigerated cabinet that held what was once Gabriel Gray, her beloved brother.

_They just filed him away like old musty paperwork!_ she thought bitterly as the slab was pulled out, revealing Gabriel's body.

Unable to contain herself, she released a loud sob then placed a hand to her face as she struggled with tears for the umpteenth time since she found out. This time it was very different. This time she was gazing upon the conclusiveness of life's end. There would be no more Gabriel. This was it. He was cold, blue and naked in a morgue; lifeless but tricking her to briefly believe that he was in some serene form of suspended animation as if they were in a bad science fiction movie.

"Gabe!" she wept openly. "What happened to you?"

"We'll give you some privacy," Archer softly informed her and she nodded, averting her eyes from them.

The detective and the coroner left the room and Grace waited until she heard the doors close behind them before she broke down entirely. Memory and regret tore her apart as she threw herself over Gabriel's body. Her fingers ran through his short dark hair as she pressed her face against his then kissed his cheek.

"I can't believe this is real! I squandered all of my time out in fucking Hollywood when I should've been here in Queens taking care of you! _Here_ was where I belonged, _here_ was my place! It's my fault this happened to you! If I'd done things differently I would've at least taken you with me! We would've shut down that mundane clock repair shop and told mom to go fuck herself!"

Laying her head upon Gabriel's lifeless chest, she held the body tight as she grieved.

"They told me you killed mom," she notified. "I don't believe it. Or, I didn't at first." Her crying made her voice hitch and gasp. Waiting to calm better, she continued: "Mom always treated you like a stranger at best. I know she loved you but she played favorites. I know _I_ was her favorite but, Gabby, believe me, I didn't _want_ to be! I urged her not to ignore you. I know she ended up doting on you because you were the only one left for her. I know she did something to you that provoked you to do this. There is no way I believe you would kill her without just cause."

She stroked his five o'clock shadow roughened face.

"I told the detective that you were a gentle man. You were the one who stayed behind to keep that goddamn shop open. _The family business._ Ha! Mom and that ridiculous man she had running the place nearly ran it into the ground. They didn't care, not like you did. 'It has our name on the sign outside,' you reminded her. 'You _should_ care what happens to the shop. It reflects on us.' You _shouldn't_ have cared, Gabe. You took over that shop and stayed to provide for mom and look where it's gotten you. You were _so_ _stupid_, little brother! So, so, _so_ _stupid!_ You loved her and she returned it with substituted love! You helped her and she repaid you with death!"

She took a few moments to compose herself, choosing exculpatory words to correct her implications.

"I'm sorry, Gabriel. You know I didn't mean any of this. But I _will_ tell you something sincerely. I'm going to find the bastard who killed you. If it's the last thing I do I promise you that."

She sniffled and performed a quick breathing exercise to regain her self-control.

"In the meantime, how about one last time for old time sake?"

Raising her hand, she produced electrical currents from her fingertips that danced down the length of her fingers and formed a whirling sphere of blue electricity in the palm of her hand. For a pithy second she considered the story of Victor Frankenstein who reanimated a dead corpse with bolts of lightning. Was it possible to bring Gabriel back the same way? She would need a massive quantity of electrical power to perform such a monumental task and it would drain if not kill her.

Perhaps sacrificing herself for her selfless brother would be the noble thing to do. He deserved to live more than she did. The only thing she managed to amount to was being famous. Fame was nothing. Family was everything. Gabriel recognized that in his self-sacrificing choice to remain in Queens while big sis partied with the elite scum of Los Angeles.

_If I hadn't left he'd still be alive!_ she convinced herself, the anger boiling her soul with the venom of possibility. There was no more powerful word in the English language than the simple two letter word _if_. It drove the best of human beings to the brink of insanity.

By allowing her emotions to seize control of her, she knew that significant damage would be done to the morgue, even to the refrigerated cabinets which contained not only her dearly departed brother but their deplorable mother. The fleeting thought of Virginia Gray did it for her. The little lightning bolts from the fingertips of her one hand also formed on the other as she pried herself away from Gabriel. More electricity crawled down her arms from her shoulders and, due to the power of the electricity surging through her body, she raised her arms and faced the ceiling as the voltage continued flowing over her. Unable to manage so much power in her weakened state, she cried out in frustrated anger as the electricity shot from her and to various locations within the room. The overhead lights burst and the stench of burnt ozone filled the morgue.

Upset that she would lose control when she should've been paying her respects to her brother, she fled from the now darkened morgue, nearly knocking over the coroner and a concerned and disconcerted Detective Archer in her wake.

----------------

**Author's Note: **Hi, everyone! Thanks to those who have read and continued to read and special thanks to those who took the time to review. I usually personally respond to each one of my reviews with a personal message but I'm so short on personal time that I've been unable to do so. I will in the future, however, and I hope you keep reading. I love and am gratefull for you all!


	4. Issue 4

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"A sibling may be the keeper of one's identity, the only person with the keys to one's unfettered, more fundamental self."  
--Marian Sandmaier

Chapter 4

As Peter searched for something to cover the wet painting he produced, Elle undertook the task of reporting Isaac's death to the police by way of an anonymous tip made through 911. After she disengaged, she watched him grab a cloth large and thick enough to cover the painting with then pick it up to stack it in front of the one of him and the mystery man in Kirby Plaza.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "We need to get out of here. The police will be coming any minute."

"I know. But I can't leave some of these paintings behind. They _must_ be a key to what's going on. We have to take as many as we can."

"Help me take them off their canvasses…"

"There's no time! We have to take them whole! The cops will be here any second! We'll take them off later!"

"Do you see how _large_ these things are? How are we going to carry a bunch of them downstairs without anyone noticing?"

Peter issued a hinting smile to her and Elle caught on.

"Right, the invisible thing," she remembered. "But _you_ can do that. Not _me_."

"I don't think you'll need to worry."

"How do you know that? Do you remember something?"

"Not really remember. More like sense."

Elle scoffed.

"Yeah, I'm comforted by that."

The sound of police sirens wailing outside alerted them both of their rapidly diminishing time.

"Fuck!" cursed Elle. "When you want them to take their time, they're there in an instant!"

"We haven't got time," Peter exclaimed. "Grab any that look helpful."

Elle readily grabbed hold of two of the paintings nearest her which were the one of the cheerleader lying dead and bloodied on the steps with her killer looming above her and the one beneath it and tucked them under her arm. She watched as he selected the ones he intended to take; he placed the one he painted over the one with the cheerleader running up a flight of stairs to escape a shadowy figure giving chase but stopped suddenly when his eyes found another. It was of Isaac standing on the rooftop with a woman and for some reason it mesmerized Peter who ceased all action to stare at the woman longingly. He _knew_ this woman. Who _was_ she? His heart swelled with an emotional recognition that he did not understand and he reached out to stroke the image lightly with the back of his fingers.

"Peter?" Elle called. "Peter, hurry up!"

The sound of the police in the hallway at last diverted his attention from the art piece.

"Damn it!" Peter swore.

With little time to spare, he placed the rooftop painting behind the other two, the wet paint of the new one soaking through the protective cloth, and secured them under his arm.

The loft erupted into a maelstrom as police swarmed inside and, acting on pure instinct, Peter clutched Elle's wrist and the young woman watched as she and the amnesiac vanished from her own sight. Though she was unable to see him, she followed Peter's lead as he circumspectly guided her forward and back up the stairs leading from the studio section of the loft. Simultaneously, the police – both detectives and SWAT team members alike – poured inside like an army of black ants. The pair manoeuvred and weaved around them, receiving a tense moment after a corner of one of the paintings Elle was hauling slammed into the arm of a SWAT team member. Frantically looking around him with his gun raised, he eventually dismissed it as one of his co-workers bumping into him and uttered an objectionable invective to the other man about it. The two engaged in a quarrel cut short by one of the detectives who put them back in line.

At that point, Peter and Elle were already slipping out the door and back into the waiting elevator. As the doors slid shut, Elle noticed that it drew the attention of one of the detectives. Only when the car began to descend did she dare to speak.

"That's pretty neat, Dave. Can you let go of me now? These big ass paintings are kinda cumbersome to hold."

"Not a chance," the invisible Peter retorted. "There's a security camera and, besides, I don't want to risk someone else getting on and seeing us."

"Yeah. Like smacking into an invisible person won't get anyone's attention."

"Stop complaining and be quiet!"

"_Fine!_"

The ride down was eternal but when it at last ended and the doors reopened to set them free, Peter dashed out, half dragging the disgruntled Elle with him. When they exited the building, they shoved into a man who issued a befuddled look since he was pushed backward by something he could not see, and stepped foot out on the sidewalk. It wasn't until they were a block away and blended into the busy pedestrian traffic when Peter released his companion and they both rematerialized to the rest of the world.

"Wow, would you come in handy for many things," Elle praised seriously as she unlocked her Versa's back door so they could slide the heavy paintings into the rear seat.

"I don't think I was one to abuse these gifts, Elle," the protean hero retorted as they hurriedly slipped into the car.

"Good boy," she said, starting up the engine, turning out of the spot and accelerating as fast as Manhattan traffic allowed. "You realize that with great power comes great responsibility. Or so says the wise Ben Parker."

"If you say so."

He didn't get it, she knew, and she didn't bother explaining it to him. She was more intent on getting away from the crime scene as quickly as she could.

------------------

Grace hailed a taxi after rushing from the morgue and directed the cabbie to take her to her brother's Queens home address, spending the entire ride trying to calm herself. When the driver asked if she was alright, she replied that she was and told him to just keep driving without question. Taking the suggestion as he learned to do through his occupation, he did as she requested.

By the time they reached Gabriel Gray's Trenton Place building, Grace was as good as new. She paid her fare with a generous tip then left the taxi. Without hesitation, she entered the lobby of the building and skimmed her eyes down the rows of doorbells until she saw one marked _Super_. Pressing it, she waited rather impatiently for a reply.

"Who's this?" a woman's crackly voice demanded.

"My name is Grace Gray. I need to speak with you about my brother Gabriel."

There was a pregnant pause without a single sound and Grace was about to stubbornly ring again when the buzzer to the door droned and she was granted entrance. According to the label on the buzzer the superintendent resided in 1A. She perused the hall, checking each number until she at last located the one she needed. The door opened as her fist was suspended in mid-knock.

"Are you the super?" she asked the middle aged woman who answered.

"Yeah," she said with a thick Brooklynite accent. "You're Gabriel's sister?"

"That I am."

"Come in, come in."

Grace was taken aback by this welcome reception but stepped inside nevertheless.

"I'm Cheryl. Your brother was one of my best tenants. Personally, he was my favorite but don't tell Mr Welch that, he has a bit of a crush on me. Any way, my condolences to you and your family. Won't you please sit?"

Grace surveyed the apartment, finding the furniture second hand but decent and the TV tuned in to _One Life to Live_.

"I think I'll stand, Cheryl," she passed. "I'm sure I won't be staying for very long."

"Oh. Alright. Then can I offer you something to drink? I have anything you can imagine."

"Ah, actually I'd be grateful for some ice water."

"Certainly, Miss Gray."

Grace peered around the room again as Cheryl ventured off into the kitchen and prepared her ice water from a jug of Poland Springs that she kept in the refrigerator.

"You're Grace Moriarty, aren't you?" Cheryl acknowledged from the other room. When Grace hesitated to respond, the woman quickly added, "It's OK, Gabriel told me who you are. Your secret's safe with me. I'm sure you're incognito to avoid the paparazzi."

"Yeah. Paparazzi. Listen…Cheryl…" Cheryl returned and handed her the glass of ice water which she impassively accepted. "Do you think it would be too much trouble for me to go into Gabriel's apartment? I'd like to at least be close to him for a while. Besides, there are some things I'd like to have as mementoes…"

"Why, certainly, Miss Gray. How could I deny you that favor? Gabriel was my best and favorite tenant." Grace rolled her eyes at the woman's repetition. "Such a lovely person. Very respectable gentleman; wouldn't harm a fly. I can't imagine someone wicked enough to want to do him harm. A perfect angel. He did so much for me. Fixed my clocks and kept me company."

Grace smiled tenderly at the accolades of her precious brother's helpfulness.

"Yes, well, that was Gabriel. He owned a chivalrous soul."

"It's such a tragedy that someone was out to hurt him. It's always the good ones who die young. The human garbage seems to live forever."

"Very true. Forgive me for being a pretentious bitch but can we please go up to his apartment now? I want to do it before I lose my nerve."

"Of course, honey." Cheryl ambled to the little hook on the wall where she kept a massive horde of keys. "But there's one thing that you must be aware of."

"What's that?"

"Your brother removed his things overnight in a mad rush about a little over a month ago. He left nothing behind. I haven't rented the apartment out to anyone yet because I'm planning on renovating it a little. It was outdated and I have to bring it up to code."

Grace was stunned to hear this. After a short recess to gather herself, she cleared her throat before speaking again.

"I'd still like to go any way, if you don't mind. I need the closure."

"But of course you do. Although, I _hate_ to ask, but can I trouble you for one teensy, tiny favor in return?"

Grace raised her eye brow suspiciously.

"For the woman who's allowing me to do this, anything."

"Can you please sign an autograph for me? It would mean a lot to me."

Internally Grace was enraged that this woman would have the audacity to impose her stardom on her during a time of vulnerability. She easily could've rewarded her insolence with electrocution or at the very least shock therapy but she needed to conserve her strength after what happened in the morgue. Instead she did the opposite and proffered her a spurious smile.

"Sure," she mollified. "What would you like me to sign?"

"Oh!" Prepared for rejection, Cheryl was caught off guard. Her eyes roved the room before she saw a piece of stationery lying on the roll top desk they stood beside. "Here. This will due."

Grace placed the glass of water down on the desk, picked up the pen and mechanically scribbled the message Cheryl dictated to her:

"To my best friend Cheryl, I miss you while in LA. Can't wait to see you again. Love always, Grace Moriarty."

Grace thought it was a preposterous message; she would never be caught dead with the likes of this woman while in Hollywood where who you are seen with defines you. But she wrote it anyway, understanding it was a necessary evil if she wanted to get into Gabe's apartment. One thing she learned the hard way out in Hollywood was that everything has its price.

"Thank you so much, Miss Mori – Miss Gray! I will cherish it forever!"

"I'm sure you will. So, let's get this visit to Gabe's over with, shall we?"

"Yes, dear, whatever you ask."

Grace followed Cheryl out of her apartment, farther up the hall and up two sets of staircases to the second level Apartment 1B where Gabriel once lived, all the way suffering more flattery of her brother by the super. She ignored most of it, catching snippets about how an altruistic Gabriel kept her company, helped her with groceries and assisted her with this, talked with her about that…Grace felt things in twofold: disgusted that it seemed like Gabe had been taking care of _two_ mothers and cheated by hearing all of this because _she_ should've been the one who shared all of these memories about Gabriel. But instead of being here making those memories she was on the west coast making movies. Resentment again poisoned her heart: anger at Hollywood, at Cheryl, and at herself. Controlling her power, the lightning that usually occurred when she was irate formed harmless static electricity that she used to carefully inch the woman's skirt up and left it clinging to the rear of the granny panties beneath. Cheryl noticed only the blinking lights on the wall next to the door.

"Hmmm," she remarked. "Faulty wiring, or so it seems. I'll have to call the electrician."

When the woman opened the door to the apartment, Grace turned to her and said, "I'd like my privacy, if you don't mind…Cheryl."

Initially Cheryl seemed insulted but then nodded her approval.

"Yes, of course. I understand. I'll leave the key with you but do lock up and bring it back when you're through."

"I promise."

Cheryl removed the key from the ring and placed it inside Grace's upturned palm. Before the superintendent left, she couldn't resist but to take a longing gaze around the room and remark that Gabriel was "such a good boy." Grace was relieved when Cheryl finally shut the door between them.

Surveying the vacated apartment, Grace was disappointed to note that, as presaged, there was absolutely nothing left inside. It was as if Gabriel had never been there at all. Despite Cheryl informing her that the place was bare a part of her wanted _something_ to be left behind, a link she could connect to her brother through. Cheryl said he hadn't been there for a little more than a month. That meant he'd covertly moved his belongings elsewhere. She had no idea where everything could be as he'd left no indication whatsoever of his last whereabouts. It was like he did not want to be found, like he was running from someone.

Something odd caught her eye. A discrepancy in the way the mirror panels across the room were divided and met the wall. She walked across bare floor toward the mirrors, trepidation coursing through her body. Reaching out, she pushed the reflective face and was startled when the panels parted, one side separating from the other with a click, revealing a crack in the way and beyond it what appeared to be a panic room.

"What the hell is _this_?" she muttered to herself but directing it toward a mental image of Gabriel.

Stepping inside, her tiny, pampered nose wrinkled in repulsion at the dusty quarters. As she walked daintily through the room, she noticed but a few insignificant things which had been left behind. Rusty, unopened cans of soup and other foods that were so warped with age that their tops were bubbled and close to bursting lined shelves and the wall framework. Labels from other cans peppered the floor along with other debris that she couldn't identify. Large plastic storage jars full of stale dry goods accompanied the cans in certain spots with overturned boxes and black plastic crates lined on the floor.

"What the hell were you expecting to happen?" she inquired the phantom image of her brother once more.

Something crinkled and when she looked down several loose leaf pages of a telephone book lay beneath her feet and several more were strewn about the floor of the room in a myriad of locations. Amongst the litter of junk her eyes found something interesting: a folded sheet of loose leaf notebook paper that displayed the words _The List_ in what she knew to be Gabe's sprawling handwriting. Stooping, she took it into her unsteady grip and closer examined it. Unfolded, she discovered it was a list of people with their complete addresses.

Brian Davis, Sanjog Iyer, Michelle Valcek, Zane Taylor, Sparrow Redhouse, Nathan Petrelli, Peter Petrelli, Au Co, Dale Smither, Claire Bennet, Bridget Bailey, Hana Gitelman, Isaac Mendez…each one on the list was marked with symbolic code representing the appropriate city in which they resided. Lines were drawn through a significant amount of them, whatever that meant. There were two Petrellis and she struggled to recall where she'd heard that particular surname before. Both Petrellis were in New York City and, being an uncommon name, she concluded that they had to be related. But _where_ had she heard that name before? It stuck out to her like a beacon in her foggy mind. Another one located in New York City other than the Petrellis was an Isaac Mendez but Mendez, for whatever reason, was one of the names crossed out. So was Brian Davis, another New Yorker.

"OK, Gabe, _what_ were you up to?" she muttered, filled with commensurate worry and disturbance.

Looking away from the list and into the farther depths of the panic room, she detected another separate section at the back with black vinyl tarp acting as curtains drawn back to expose a second door. This auxiliary door provided her with the persuasive need to push ahead. Gingerly stepping forward with an eldritch shiver playing across her spine, she noticed several torn black and white photographs of families she couldn't recognize along with white votive candles inside broken red holders scattered about the room. A small overturned table and an open Bible with torn pages, another large white candle that was broken in half and a shattered statue of an angel were scattered across the floor. More broken angel and cherub statues joined more ripped photographs and cracked votives crunched beneath her feet. It was like Gabriel had created a makeshift private chapel that had been ransacked.

However, the door was the most disturbing aspect of this wanna-be chapel. Words were scribbled over it and its frame in tiny silver writing that she instantly recognized as that of Gabriel's hand. The text was also on the entire wall that the door occupied, only in black marker here. The closer she got the better she was able to decipher the words. Over and over again the same phrase was repeated as if by a punished child writing lines on the blackboard:

_Forgive me father for I have sinned._

------------------

"Call this Weird New York as a bevy of unexplained events occurring within the past twenty-four hours has baffled Big Apple officials with more than a fair share of mysteries," a reporter was saying on the television in the Dunkin Donuts that Elle insisted they stop at so she could urgently use the bathroom…then grab a blueberry coffee. He decided to order one as well and declared that they needed a break to think about their next move. Thus, both he and Elle clutched their cups tightly, intently watching the report from their corner table.

"This _can't_ be good, Dave," muttered Elle, their eyes locked on the TV. "Maybe you should start calling me by something other than my real name. You know, so nobody will know I'm me."

"They don't know your name yet, Elle. I think you're safe for now."

As if on cue to Peter's statement, Elle's eyes darkened when she saw a young punk rock girl with pink and blonde hair on the screen.

"Amber!" she proclaimed.

"Her name is Elle Miasnikov," the punk girl snitched to the reporter as the sketch of the female fugitive splashed across the screen. "She's my roommate and…"

Elle's strident gasp raised above the words, drawing more than Peter's attention. "That _bitch_! I'm going to _kill_ her!"

"We need to get out of here," Peter suggested quietly.

The rebarbative effect Amber's treachery had on Elle was distressing.

"I _refuse_ to leave because of a stupid girl whose head looks she used a bottle of Pepto Bismal for hair dye!"

Peter gestured toward the busy counter where a horde of New York's Finest was questioning the staff of the establishment.

"Fuck!' swore Elle. "Do that thing you do again! The invisible thing!"

"Not in front of everybody!"

"We're going to get _caught_!"

Peter discreetly rose from his chair, careful not to scuffle it against the floor and Elle followed suit. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist firmly and Elle smiled at the possessive movement in spite of herself. He meant to undertake the responsibility of getting them out of the Dunkin Donuts undetected but one of the officers turned around when they were half way out the door.

"Hey!" the cop exclaimed, pointing at them. "It's them! Stop!"

As a fearful reaction, Peter's instinct for invisibility kicked in as he vanished before the eyes of his young friend. Elle had no choice but to allow him to zig-zag her through the crowded sidewalk but when she noticed that they passed the cross street where she'd parked, she yelped, "My car!"

"We can't risk going back to it now!" Peter insisted. "They know who you are. They'll run the license plates and they'll know we're around the vicinity whenever they see it."

"But the paintings!"

Peter stopped abruptly at the side of a newsstand and, because she was unable to see him, she ran into him, nearly knocking him down.

"Damn it!" he cursed. "We _have_ to go back for them!"

"Then we're driving."

"But…"

"Do you feel like carrying those paintings on the subway? They aren't exactly light as a feather, you know. If they get in our way, I'll _Deathproof_ their asses!"

"You have a point," Peter agreed, another pop culture reference losing its meaning on him. "But if we take the subway we can be invisible the whole way. I don't know if I can make a car invisible and wouldn't recommend it if I could."

"Why don't we just stand here invisible and wait for them to clear the area? We're pretty much safe like this, aren't we?"

She pressed closely to his body, an arm around his midsection, done for comfort rather than as sexual innuendo. Then something unexpected attracted her eyes from the newsstand.

"Hey!" she cried with glee. "New _9__th__ Wonders!_!"

Without thought or care, she lunged for a copy, unintentionally breaking her connection with Peter's invisibility and thus materializing before the shocked man inside the booth. As her hand clamped down on a copy of the comic issue, Peter's hand grabbed hold of her once again, performing his disappearing act on her and the stolen comic.

"Don't let go again!" he scolded, drawing her near.

"Sorry!"

"We _have_ to get those paintings."

"I know, I know!"

A pair of police officers hunting for them stopped mere inches away. Elle recognized one as the cop who shouted at them in the Dunkin Donuts and she huddled against Peter's body nearer, stepping behind him. His arm held her protectively closer, waiting with bated breath while the cops contemplated their next move.

"Are you sure they ran in this direction?" the one who saw them was asked by his partner.

"Yeah! I swear it!"

"They could be anywhere now! Let's let this one slide. You're not even sure you saw them."

"I'm telling you, _I saw them!_ Plain as the nose on my face!"

"Then why would they run?"

Peter and Elle couldn't hear the reply as the officers started walking back the way they came.

"Yeah, Dave!" muttered Elle, rolling up the comic and sticking it in her back pocket. "Why _are_ we running? We've never done anything wrong!"

"Call it instinct kicking in again," he told her, reaching into his pocket for some loose singles which he slid toward the newsagent to pay for the comic. The man was so shaken that he spilled over backwards, shouting that a ghost just touched him and handed him money. "Let's retrieve those paintings and get out of here."

He led her back to the car which she unlocked and they appeared back into public view again.

"I don't want to leave my car," she griped. "They'll impound it and I'm still paying it off."

"After we get all of this sorted out, I'll buy you a new one," he retorted, confiscating the paintings from the back seat.

Elle's nose wrinkled.

"On a _nurse's_ salary?"

"I'm loaded. I'm a Petrelli."

"Your _family_ is loaded, Nurse Petrelli. It doesn't mean that _you_ are."

She unburdened him from one of the paintings and snatched his free hand after he shut the door and she locked it again.

"It's going to take us _forever_ to get back to Brooklyn!" she bitched.

"From Lower Manhattan? Not too long."

"Hauling these goddamned things? On a subway? Long enough!"

"We can be invisible the whole way."

"Well then it should be a _real_ picnic."

Peter's sweet smile was the last thing Elle saw before the pair vanished from the sight of the world once again.

------------------

Isaac Mendez's loft bustled with a plethora of police and forensic activity within moments of Elle's anonymous tip and Archer was one of the lucky ones called to the scene. When he got the summons to the loft, he'd been in the morgue trying to help the coroner piece together what happened in their absence. The room was a disaster area: the lights were blown, the remnants of the bulbs crunched beneath their feet, scattered charred files and melted equipment, including some of the refrigerated cabinets. Ironically, among one of the few things that managed to go untouched was Gabriel Gray's body. Perhaps, he considered, that Grace Gray could not bear to see her brother in the state of eternal sleep. Yet that explanation didn't explain what happened to the room itself.

The call on his cell phone as he stepped back out in the hall was a new assignment. A comic book artist was found dead and they needed him immediately at the crime scene. It was a ghastly mess, they warned, but he scoffed at them. Confident that he would be able to handle it, Archer drove warily to the building. Yet when he reached the loft what awaited him was more gruesome than the seasoned detective was prepared for. Mendez's body was still lying on the floor, a few days lifeless, surrounded by congealing blood which was dried in certain spots and saturating the floor in others. The artist's body was covered by a blood-stained sheet that was soaked through near the head.

"What's the story?" Archer asked, unwrapping a stick of chewing gum and popping it into his mouth.

One of the crime scene investigators pointed to the body.

"Take a look," he tempted the detective.

Reluctantly, Archer bent down, drew back the sheet and cringed in spite of himself. It just _never_ got easier.

"Where's his brain?" inquired the detective.

The CSI shrugged.

"We haven't found it yet."

"Christ! What about the weapon?"

"We haven't found one. Not anything that could saw through his skull that cleanly."

"His wrists and ankles were impaled by paintbrushes. Get any prints off those?"

"Negative again."

Archer paused, far in deliberation.

"How is _that_ possible?" he wondered rhetorically. "The killer had to drive them through his arms and legs either by shoving them with all of his strength or he needed to hold them while using another object to pound them into him."

"He could've used gloves. We're not sure though. We have to look a little closer. Run more tests."

Archer sighed and scratched his head.

"Did you find prints _anywhere_?"

"We lifted a few from the door and from a fifth paintbrush we found on the floor."

"You found some on a paintbrush on the floor but not on the ones in his wrists?"

"That's right."

"Those prints are most likely going to be from Mendez himself."

"Right now, it's all we got."

"Meteors falling to Brighton Beach, missing affluent family members, a fried morgue, a son who commits matricide then later is murdered in public with a sword and now a comic book artist with no brain. What the fuck has gotten into this city in the last few hours?"

"You mean this is all out of the ordinary?" the CSI commented sarcastically.

Archer wryly smiled.

"This _is_ New York," the detective rejoined. "If you can't find it here…"

"…can't find it anywhere," the CSI finished.

Archer nodded.

"Let me know when you're back at the lab. I'll be there to see who was smart enough to leave himself behind."

------------------

Astounded by her findings in the panic room, Grace staggered from behind the glass case and back into the empty apartment. Her expression was frozen and movements automatic, too dazed to react appropriately from the massive personal trauma she suffered.

Gabriel had been involved in something far larger than himself, something that troubled him enough to create a secret sanctuary. Who was he asking forgiveness from and for what sin? Certainly it couldn't be God since she knew that her brother loathed the cookie-cutter pattern which the church shoved its followers into. Gabe wanted to be someone special and he was smart enough to realize that religion would put him in a slavish mass of lost souls rather than make him stand apart from them. It simply wasn't Gabe's modus operandi to be pious.

Unless something frightened him enough to force him to the altar, Gabriel Gray found his savior through scientific reasoning and logic. He never had a need for the god their mother tended to cling to. Grace doubted that had a change of heart over the course of years. He may have negated his philosophy in the aspect of remaining behind to take charge of Gray & Sons and aid their feeble minded mother but he was so steeped in the dynamics of time and theory that there was no chance of religious pollution permanently seeping in.

Yet here was irrefutable proof that somehow it _had_ dribbled in. _Forgive me father for I have sinned._ Printed neatly in Gabe's handwriting. Had years of steady and constant influence from their psychotic mother broken him down? Grace believed her brother was much stronger than that. He'd always yearned to be special, in the way like his big sister was, and religion would never fulfill that need for him for he knew that it would serve to condemn people with extraordinary abilities. If they did it during witch trials to people without powers, her blood ran cold at what they would do to her. And still something had placed the fear of God within Gabriel.

Choking on a sob, she sank to the floor and pressed her back against the wall, an unstable hand against her lovely face. She remembered the photo she kept of him in her wallet and eagerly searched for it, longing to see Gabriel's sweet, handsome face again, even if it was only in a photograph. From now on it would be her only means of spending time with him. When she located it, she smiled triumphantly before pressing it over her heart, at last releasing the tears she had been guarded to withhold.

Moments later after her tears dried and she gathered her composure she was finally able to gaze upon her lost baby brother's ameliorating picture. Affection rather than electricity poured from her fingertips as she stroked it tenderly. Her brother, the consummate geek with his dark hair perfectly parted and combed, not a single strand misplaced and glasses with thick, black frames distracting from warm hazel eyes but not subtracting from the good looking face beneath them. The final nail in the Poindexter coffin was his clothing: a white Oxford unbuttoned at the neck but covered by, of all things, a grey sweater vest. If he hadn't been an introvert he would've had no problem with women; he was like a living Clark Kent and what woman didn't want Clark Kent?

"Christ, Gabriel," she muttered softly. "_You_ could've been the star if you cleaned up that dorky, nerdy look of yours. I miss you _so_ _much _it's unbearable! All of this wasted time trying to be special to our mother, to the rest of the world. You had no idea how special you were to _me_. Why wasn't that enough for you?"

She stroked the face in the photo.

"I know it's because I wasn't there like I should've been. I don't believe their accusations that you killed Virginia. Not you. If you did, it had to be an accident. There is _no way_…" She sighed. "I want to know what _happened_ to you. Guide me, Gabriel, show me what happened. And please don't tell me you fell into her twisted god's clutches. What could you have meant by what you wrote? Was it to Virginia's god? An apology to our father? He was someone you never even knew, Gabe. He abandoned you before he got to know you."

Damn the petty cruelties of life! Speculation of how things would've turned out if their father had stayed flickered through her mind. It was plausible that he would've put his foot down and not allowed Virginia to dote on their female offspring so lavishly. Gabriel more than likely would've ascertained some parental affection, some guidance and might've acquired a decent father figure. Grace couldn't recall a single moment when their father was an asshole; he just couldn't bear the burden of siring a freak for a daughter. She terrified him and he needed to run away from _her_, not Gabriel. But subsequently her brother was the one who paid for her gift. Conversely from how Virginia exploited what she perceived to be greatness in Grace, her father could've uplifted Gabriel in some similar way. After all, Gabe was the _normal_ one, the one who could've benefitted most from their father. _Why_ couldn't he stay for the sake of his infant son?

Just as quickly as her tears came they were replaced with a need for both answers and revenge. Normal. What dictates what is normal in society? In the Gray household her powers were a normal occurrence, shorting out circuitry and turning on appliances until she learned to better control them. Yes, her father took flight and left his family behind because of her. True, her already unhinged doting mother fell off the deep end and drowned in a sea of the unbelievable. As the only prosaic household member, Gabriel was the bridge between Gray normalcy and outsider normalcy. He kept Grace sane, which was an uneasy task to accomplish with a daffy, smothering mother. In his unremarkable existence he was exceptional and Grace believed that was his gift to her.

On the grander scale he was a nobody and it put an appetite within him. The man who was barely there in the eyes of others had meant the world to his sister. This was precisely why it was impossible that her poor sibling had nothing to offer the world in the aspects of eminence. He was an extraordinary man leading a forced solitary life but there was something in him waiting for its chance to break out. Grace had always known it.

_Gabe knew he _was_ special! He had to know he was special to at least me!_

But how _could_ he have known when she abandoned him similar to the way their father had? In reality she was probably his biggest disappointment. Now he was gone and it was too late to make amends for her wrong. There would be no more sneaking him chocolate before dinner when he felt down, no more going to the park and sitting beneath a tree to read comics, no more creeping into her bed to cuddle on winter's nights or when he was afraid of a nightmare. No more, no more, no more!

They had been robbed of it all and the thief would pay dearly.

Deciding that she already spent too long in the dust of Gabriel's memories, memories she wasn't inclusive in, she tucked the photo back into her purse and rose from the floor. It was intolerable to stay any longer. The few precious recollections she had were not contained within these walls. All that remained here were lingering questions and the haunting echoes of regret.

Key in her hand, she stepped outside of 1B and slowly closed the door behind her, locking it up. A toxic blend of animosity and sorrow seized her heart as she strolled back to Cheryl the Super's apartment in a fluster amid flickering hallway lights and knocked. The obnoxious woman answered within seconds and smiled.

"How did things go?" she asked. "Did it help bring closure?"

"As much as it's going to give," Grace responded flatly. "Here's your key."

She extended it to the woman who accepted it without interest.

"Why don't you come inside and calm down for a while?" offered Cheryl. "You can have a glass of sherry to help. You shouldn't be wandering around outside while upset. Your guard will be down and anything can happen to you."

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, Miss Gray. It would be a pleasure. It's the least I could do."

Before she realized it, Cheryl had taken Grace by the arm and was leading her farther into the apartment.

"That's a girl," Cheryl said in a maternal way that sent Grace's powers dimming the lights. "Looks like I'd better call that electrician today. Come with me, my dear, sit and relax."

Grace suddenly was ushered to a sofa covered in protective plastic that squeaked obscenely when she sat. She gave the cushion a displeased glare then glanced up at Cheryl who was already heading toward the small bar across the room. If the woman heard the rude sound she dismissed it for which the irked celebrity was thankful. Grace's attention was drawn to the television before her as it began to flip through the channels on its own, another result of her upset gift.

"Here you go, hun," Cheryl cooed, returning with two glasses of sherry, one of which she handed Grace.

The Hollywood diva took it absent-mindedly.

Cheryl sat in a chair across from her and prattled on again with more stories of how Gabe visited her, brought her flowers every week, discussed books and topics weighing heavily on psychology and human potential, how he always wanted to be more in life but felt trapped, suffocated. Then the woman inadvertently mentioned something that truly caught Grace's drifting attention.

"It was the most uncanny thing," she said. "One day he told me my watch was about to stop because the battery was dying. I laughed and told him that it actually was a new battery I'd bought two weeks before. He told me to check it to see and, wouldn't you know it, the damned thing _had_ stopped! I think the second hand moved one second more then went dead."

"Are you saying that he knew it would stop and why beforehand and without taking it apart?"

"That's right. He looked at it like he was dissecting it with his eyes, took my wrist, raised it to his ear and gave his prognosis. Like he _heard_ the battery give out. It was fascinating. Like he was a watch doctor or something."

News of this made Grace's heart beat faster with exhilaration. She _knew_ it! Gabe _was_ special in her way all along!

The sudden notes of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata announcing an incoming call on Grace's cell phone startled both women. At first she planned to ignore it but when she fished it out of her purse she noticed that it was Detective Archer, making her heart skip a beat or two.

"Would you please excuse me?" she pardoned herself as she stood. "I must take this call. It's urgent."

"Of course, my dear."

Grace answered the phone as she walked away from the noise of the television.

"Miss Gray?" Archer's smooth baritone voice greeted, sending shivers of anticipation and lust through Grace's body.

_Calm yourself, Grace! Keep your libido in check! _Gabriel_ comes first!_

"Detective Archer! Did you find out anything new? What's wrong?"

"That's what I was hoping you would tell me. The way you ran out of the morgue and the state it was in after you left got me worried."

Grace throatily laughed it off.

"Oh, that. How sweet of you to be concerned. Something was on fire. I have a phobia of fire due to a childhood accident so I reacted without thinking. I'm sorry. I hope nothing was damaged too badly."

"It's fixable, don't worry."

"How about Gabriel? Did he manage to go unscathed?"

"Fortunately he did. As a matter of fact, I'm calling in reference to your brother. We found a suspect."

Grace's disposition percolated with renewed interest. Spotlighting on her original business with the strapping detective, she came alive again and the room around her brightened from the energy she emitted.

"You have one? Who is it?"

"It's best that we speak in person. It's very sensitive information regarding another ongoing investigation. We believe that your brother was a victim of a series of killings."

Grace's throat tightened in painful expectancy.

"W-what? _What_ are you telling me?"

"I can't give the details right now. Can you meet me tonight?"

"Yes, of course. Tell me where and when."

"I'll meet you at your hotel. Where are you staying?"

"I don't know yet. I just got into town and came straight to you."

"Check in somewhere and call me back with your information. I'll meet you."

"Alright. We'll meet in the lounge of…wherever I'll be."

"Great. I'll see you around 7:30 sharp."

"Perfect."

"One last question, Miss Gray."

"What's that?"

"Did your brother know a Peter Petrelli?"

Grace was bewildered upon hearing that name for it was the last one she expected to hear and yet it had been one that kept finding its way into her life today.

"Uh," she stammered, "n-no, not that I'm aware of. Why?"

"I'm sorry, I can't go into it now. I promise I'll explain in detail later."

"Is this Peter Petrelli your suspect?"

"I have a little more digging to do before I let you know anything. We'll talk about it later. See you then."

"Wait! You can't ju-"

The line went dead as Archer hung up. Annoyed, Grace sighed loudly and slipped the phone back into her purse. Removing a folded piece of paper that she'd stuck inside earlier, she walked back into the living room where she'd left Cheryl. The entire room burst into poltergeist activity as the amped up electricity from the surrounding hidden wiring buzzed loudly around the whole apartment, sending the television channels to suddenly begin changing again. Alarmed, Cheryl gawked about her in amazement.

"What the hell is going on around here?" clamored the mystified super.

The television faltered at a channel giving a five o' clock news brief that grabbed Grace's attention before it switched to the next one. It had been the fleeting mention of the surname Petrelli which she heard. Grace manipulated it to turn back. A portrait of the Petrelli pair was displayed prominently across the screen.

"That's what _I_ would like to know," Grace muttered.

Before she could hear anything about the Petrellis the news anchor toggled to another story. The meteor that fell on Brighton Beach. A girl who fled the scene with an injured man. A pink haired girl named Amber Romerovski was spilling her guts in true Brutus fashion.

"Her name is Elle Miasnikov. She's my roommate and she's a little crazy if you ask me. I'm not surprised if she's sneaking around the city with a wanted man."

Her ranting denigrate was cut off by the reporter who continued with the latest in the story. Grace wasn't surprised about who it referenced.

"According to eye witnesses, Miasnikov is joined by the missing Peter Petrelli. Police are searching frantically for the peripatetic couple who are wanted for questioning in the death of artist Isaac Mendez…"

"That's Congressman Petrelli's younger brother," Cheryl informed. "Looks like there's always one bad apple in every bunch. Such a shame too. He's a good looking boy. Could've gone far."

"I have to leave," Grace said vehemently.

Cheryl protested but Grace ignored her and exited the apartment. Once a safe distance away, she stopped, unfolded the paper clenched within her grasp and examined it. It was the handwritten list from Gabriel's panic room. Her eyes skimmed the list until they fell on one particular name and address, the common link between the enigmatic Peter Petrelli and Gabriel Gray: the crossed out name of Isaac Mendez, 215 Reed Street.

------------------

**Author's Note:** Again, a whole-hearted thanks to my readers and reviewers who share their time with my work. Continuing to do so is inspiration for me and it is greatly appreciated. On a side note, the infamous writer's strike will make an extremely busy Lupinus in real life so I ask that you please have patience should I need to skip a week or two to handle the demands of my real life career. I will make every effort to make my weekly posts for this story and will continue working on the other stories posted here (yes, they _are_ in the works, everyone!). Thanks in advance and love you all!


	5. Issue 5

**Author's Warning:** Despite the PG-13 rating for the overall story, a few chapters may be boosted to an R for brief sexuality. This is one of them. You've been warned!

--------------

"Children of the same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connections can supply..."  
--Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, 1814

Chapter 5

Peter felt as if he should've been a juggler rather than a nurse. Standing on the F train with Elle pressed compactly against him and the paintings precariously balanced on the top of his foot while leaning against the side of the seat near the doors was a difficult task that only a true New Yorker could handle. The train wavered bumpily from side to side and the paintings slipped from his grasp; Elle managed to grab them before they hit the dirty floor. Had they not been touching his foot, some observant passenger would've momentarily spotted them and doubted their sanity.

It wasn't until they disembarked at their stop on Avenue X that Peter released Elle's wrist and slackened his muscles to an extent but nevertheless kept his large eyes wide with vigilance. Elle, who'd taken command of the paintings since their near tumble on the subway, trudged behind, struggling with the canvasses until he relieved her of the corpulent burden.

"I must say, Dave," she huffed, "that this in _no_ way looks suspicious. We're supposed to be inconspicuous here and we are anything _but_ inconspicuous. I feel like the Winchester brothers who, in spite of the fact that they are running from the authorities, continue to drive in the most obvious of vehicles."

"You feel like _who_?" was all Peter could muster as he continued his diverted surveillance of their environment.

Elle shook her head, mumbling, "Never mind. Where are we going?"

"I don't know. Someplace where we can look at these paintings in peace. Have one in mind?"

"Not right off hand. This is Brooklyn. It's not exactly a location known for its privacy."

"I don't want to go back to your brother's. I've already brought _you_ into my mess and I think we should try to keep him out of it as much as possible. The fewer who get involved the better for us."

"I think we _should_ go back. He offered to be our home base, and if we don't show up he'll worry like crazy. Given the circumstances, I don't want to do that to him. We fight a lot but I still love him."

Peter sighed, resigned in his understanding. "You're right. I wish I could return the courtesy to _my_ brother."

His words brimmed with an essence of familial yearning. He couldn't help but wonder if Nathan was troubled by his disappearance or if he was wise to his younger sibling's capabilities, ergo merely waiting for his return home. Worse was the likelihood that he didn't want him back at all.

"Should we finish walking there?" inquired Elle. "It isn't too much farther."

Preoccupied by his brotherly musings, he nodded then muttered his agreement.

Then it was Elle's turn to guide him through the active streets which he easily obliged to. Just for one moment it was nice to relinquish control which afforded him stolen time to reflect. Too much was happening all at once and battling amnesia complicated keeping everything straight. A complex life awaited him, or so it seemed: an affluent family, a powerful brother, and a few superpowers under his belt. Not to mention he was a hospice nurse which must've caused enough stress in its own right. If his family had great wealth and authority then how many people were scouring the city for him? It was feasible that the police were trying to return him to his family safe and sound and Elle was wrong in her untrustworthy stance against them. However, the true crux of the situation haunted him:

_Then why am I willing to believe her so quickly?_ _Why am I allowing her to keep me away from them?_

His rampant thoughts turned to his niece Claire and the touching way she beseeched the public for his safe and expedited return. She was only an underage teen, what harm could _she_ pose to him? It wasn't possible for someone who rendered such a warming speech to end up having sinister undertones. Someone definitely cared about him. _Claire_ cared. _Claire_ wanted him home. _Claire_ wanted him safe. And that was enough for him.

He imagined Claire running toward him, arms outstretched in welcome, a brilliant smile across what he inferred to be a beautiful face. He would embrace her back, squeeze her tight against him and chastely kiss her cheek. He would swear an oath to never leave her again, even though he didn't yet know the circumstances that brought about his disappearance from her life. Claire could have the answers he was desperate for. If only he was able to contact her without anyone else knowing it!

He noticed that they at last arrived at Alex's building and his exhausted mind blurred. His vertiginous mind just couldn't think any more. This must've been what he felt like during finals in nursing school, or when he interned at the hospital, or when he was pulling double shifts…or how it felt after losing his first patient. Fatigue and weakness dropped upon him as swiftly as Wile E. Coyote's anvil fell off the desert precipice in a Roadrunner cartoon. He wasn't even aware that he was inside the apartment until Elle took the paintings from his loosening grasp.

"Sit down, Dave," Elle instructed soothingly as she helped him onto the sofa. "You need rest. You look like you're gonna die."

He babbled an incoherent response that even he didn't understand. His tongue was sluggish, inebriated from too much action in too short a time. The stress overwhelmed him and he slouched over on his side, eyes already closed. Feeling terribly achy and overheated, he was scarcely able to raise his head when Elle crammed a lumpy pillow beneath it. Muttering a sigh of thanks, he wasn't certain if she said anything in return. Coolness struck his feet when he felt her remove his shoes and socks - the ones he borrowed from Alex - and swing his legs upon the couch, straightening him out properly.

Her footsteps faded as she walked away but seconds later returned before he felt a heavy warmth cover his quiescent form. A blanket. He groaned and settled with his arm tucked beneath the pillow, too tired and feeble to produce a sufficient thank you a second time. Something fervent and wet pressed against his sweaty brow that he knew to be Elle's lips rendering him a solemn kiss.

"Get your rest, Dave," she whispered. "Don't worry. I'll watch over you."

It was all he heard before succumbing to the unconquerable Sandman.

--------------

Claire was relentless in her investigative pursuit for her lost uncle. Noah watched with pride as she independently handled the matter, wondering when his little girl had become so grown. As they gradually made their way from one end of the Brighton Beach boardwalk to the other she aggressively questioned shop keepers and random pedestrians, insisting that he not interfere because it was something she needed to do alone. She beseeched of everyone she stopped to take a look at the photograph of Peter, stolen from a picture frame in the sitting room of the Petrelli mansion.

Noah kept his promise and stood idly, surveying her progress. Witnessing how people reacted to Claire's pleas was an interesting study of human behavior. Certain groups tended to respond in similar if not identical ways. Most of the older women paid her no attention and rewarded her efforts with dirty glares but the ones who did were sympathetic and wished her the best in her hunt. The older men leered at her discreetly when her back was turned or obviously when it wasn't and Noah observed them with meticulous vigilance. The younger individuals who were close to either her age or Peter's took noteworthy interest in what she was doing rather than in her physical assets; most of the teen males paying attention but goofing off in an effort to impress while a majority of the females commented on how handsome Peter was.

Her solicitous fear for Peter was harrowing to witness. Never before had he seen his daughter in a more distraught state. He lacked the heart to tell her that should anyone manage to find Peter nobody knew the condition he would be in and it might be too unbearable for her to see. The magnitude of the nuclear explosion would've been incredibly destructive to his body. The regenerative ability that he'd absorbed from Claire would no doubt eventually heal his ravaged flesh but he was not inviolable to the taste of death nor to the suffering of the extensive wounds he would've received. More than likely nobody would be able to even recognize him for a long time until those extensive wounds healed.

The truth was nobody knew for certain what the precise consequences to a post-explosion Peter would be. Would he completely yet provisionally die then later resurrect in a similar way to how Claire was brought back from the autopsy she was unaware that her father clandestinely knew of? Would he be alive but so drastically impaired that he would be an untenable invalid, either mentally or physically? A vegetative Peter would not fare Claire well in the least. Noah did not want to think of how she would react to that tragic probability.

Angela Petrelli insisted that Peter would survive the explosion which was why she was more than willing to allow it to come to fruition. Noah felt pure disgust for any parent who would let a preventable disaster occur to her own son; that much he agreed with Claire about. It took him and Sandra so long to conceive Lyle and accepted Claire as a gift that he could not fathom of harming someone who was of his own flesh and blood. Despite the fact that his daughter was adopted, she still qualified for blood status; _he_ was the one who raised her, not the MIA Nathan Petrelli who paid off Meredith Gordon to hide their morganatic tryst which produced Claire.

Still. Who was _he_ to judge the Petrelli matriarch? Peter was probably endeared to her in her own demented way. All he knew was that he could never do such a deplorable thing to Claire, regardless of how invincible she was. He pitied that an outstanding, gentle soul like Peter had been born into a family that was a contemptible pit of vipers. How the young man ever managed to keep his kind hearted nature without reducing himself to their level was a miracle onto itself. Being a freak in the eyes of the world was bad enough but being freakish to your own family was unforgivable.

_The apple may not _fall_ far from the tree but _sometimes_ it manages to roll away._

He checked with the western horizon for the telltale red sun dipping below the buildings and the rides and decided to call an end to Claire's quest for the day.

"Claire!" he summoned, drawing her attention from a few yards away. "It's time to go."

She excused herself from the company of the young couple she had been talking to and rejoined him.

"Just another hour," she implored. "_Please_."

"Sweetheart. We've been out here all day and haven't found a single soul who has seen him."

"But I _can't_ give up…"

"I'm not asking you to give up on him. But there is only so much you can do in one day. If you don't take a break from all of this madness then you will be more of a detriment than a help."

"But…"

"You don't think Peter would agree with you pushing yourself beyond the limits, do you? What good would it do him if _you're_ the one who needs to recuperate?"

The reasoning worked as Claire's shoulders slumped and the anxious expression she wore on her face all day finally relaxed.

"I _am_ tired," she caved.

"Of course you are. You haven't even eaten anything yet today."

"I had a bag of zeppoles."

"_Real_ food, Claire-Bear."

She sighed, "Fine. Let's go find some _real_ food."

They began their walk back towards their rental car, parked near the subway station, each with an arm slung around the other, she slightly leaning against him.

"Do you have a preference?" he asked.

"I think I'm in the mood for a big fat cheeseburger."

"Cheeseburger it is, then."

--------------

"_When you put everyone first, you end up last. You always put Nathan first, he took advantage."_

"_It wasn't you that was just pushing him right out in front of me?"_

"_He takes up more space than you. Demanded more attention. And besides, it's not my fault you allowed it."_

"_He's my brother. I love him."_

"_Love is overrated."_

"_He loves me too. I know it. We've always been close."_

"_Rose colored glasses."_

"_That's _cruel_, mom. Since dad died, I know you've been feeling free to speak your mind but it wouldn't hurt to _edit yourself_ every _once in a while_."_

"_I'm sorry if the truth hurts. I'm just saying you hero worshipped him and those feelings were never returned."_

"_You're wrong. It's biological. I can't help it, we're connected."_

Peter burrowed peacefully beneath his blanket, trapped between the dream of a memory and the wakefulness of reality. For just one fleeting moment disillusionment brought him to think he was home in the Petrelli mansion or in his own apartment wherever that was. He didn't care where he was, honestly. All he _did_ care about was that it was in a warm, safe place, untouchable from injury.

He liked to believe, if for but that moment, that he was cosseted by a doting mother and an affectionate brother. If he opened his eyes all of that would vanish and he didn't want it to. There was an upsetting feeling inside him that the discussion he dreamt about was in fact a recollection struggling to return to the surface of his mind. He'd been conversing with a woman old enough to be his mother and Nathan was their topic. Two snippets troubled him most:

"_He's my brother. I love him."_

"_I'm just saying you hero worshipped him and those feelings were never returned."_

He groaned and stirred again, this time less peacefully.

The interaction impressed upon him that Nathan, the brother he adored even though he couldn't remember his face or past affairs with him was remiss in their relationship. He pictured himself immediately as a six-year-old clinging onto his big brother's coattails and mimicking everything, much to the elder child's disgruntlement.

"_Stop _copying_ me!"_ Fantasy Nathan would growl through gritted teeth.

"_Stop copying _me_!"_ Fantasy Peter would imitate.

"_No! _You're_ not the boss of me!"_

"_No! You're not the boss of _me_!"_

"_Mom!"_

His love for Nathan _couldn't _be mutually exclusive. It wouldn't be right if he was unloved by his big brother. Just as he insisted in his dream, he knew he shared a biological connection to Nathan that hardwired within them both an affectionate bond which dictated they protect each other. Neither Nathan nor their mother could refute that. It was impossible. The _same_ _blood_ pumped through their veins. Despite the consequences they would always be there for each other if for no other purpose than they were of the same flesh. That physical connection deepened to scores of other unseen, uncontested ties; of this Peter was sure.

_Even if he doesn't know I'm missing he knows _something's_ wrong! I _know_ he does! He can _feel_ it!_

Before Peter learned he had a brother, he sensed that there'd been something missing but he could not place what until he first laid eyes on the picture in the newspaper. Nathan was his right arm that was currently severed off. In his place was a nagging phantom limb that he needed to rid himself of by reattaching the real arm. Nathan was irreplaceable and he wouldn't let anyone tell him that the concept wasn't reciprocated.

He cursed and opened his sore eyes, his head instantly feeling as if it would split in two. Both the fantasy and the dream were over. Reality needed to seep back in.

"Hi, Dave!" a chipper voice directed toward him.

Struggling to sit up, he saw the pretty face he recognized as Elle. She resembled an angel in the soft light of the room and the comparison made him smile.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, but I don't feel too much better. My body aches a little. I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me. I was exhausted. What time is it?"

"After six. Do you want an aspirin to stop your achiness?"

"No thanks, I think I'll be OK for now. Where's Alex? At work?"

"Out getting food. He took the night off to play the host with the most. He has nothing edible around here and not having anything to offer a couple of guests is unacceptable."

"I'll remember that, Miss Etiquette, if I ever manage to find my way back home and I invite you over for a thank-you feast."

Laughing, Elle took the liberty to plop herself down beside him and tenderly placed her head on his shoulder. That was when he noticed her blistered, raw hands which dissolved his own troubles and kick-started his salubrious habits.

"What happened to your hands?"

"Those damned paintings skinned them. I told you they were too much to handle while walking. That's probably why your body aches too."

"Let me see."

Without waiting for consent he took her hands into his and inspected the excoriated palms. They appeared incredibly painful and guilt presided in his conscious.

"It's my fault," he muttered but she didn't catch what he said.

"Huh?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry, Elle."

She shrugged and persevered, "I'll live."

"Wash them with warm water. There's paint chips and dirt in them that you need to remove so they won't infect."

"Wow. You are _such_ a nurse."

They looked at each other and affectionately smiled.

"While you were asleep I took a peek at those paintings we stole from Isaac's loft," she updated.

"Did you figure out anything?" He became self conscious, afraid that because he was perspiring then she could probably smell his sickly stink. He wanted a shower despite the fact that Elle didn't seem to notice or at least mind his odor.

"I realized that in the Kirby Plaza one the guy you're with is the villain from _9__th_ _Wonders!_. I told you that those paintings were of his characters."

"But why would he paint _me_ in one?"

"I told you that one wasn't a Mendez. _You_ painted something back at the loft. Maybe _you_ were the one who painted the Kirby Plaza picture."

"Why would I put myself in a painting like that?"

She shrugged.

"Then again, when I compared the painting you did when you went Evil Dead on me to the one the mystery artist did it doesn't really look like your style. The one you painted smeared a lot since it was still wet when you put the cloth over it, unfortunately."

"Maybe the answers I'm looking for is in Isaac Mendez's work."

Elle chuckled and returned with more insinuation, "Maybe you _were_ his lover and adding you to the comic was his version of a love letter."

"Isaac Mendez was _not_ my lover, Elle."

"Are you _sure_?"

The longing sentiments that had overwhelmed him at the mention of Simone Deveaux earlier returned to him. Behind his eyes there was a glimpse of a splash of red, the feel of warm soft flesh, the scent of rain, of making love…

_This is why you sent them after me? Jealousy? With me out of the way, you'd have Simone all to yourself._

_You stole her away from me!_

"Positive."

At that moment Alex entered the apartment with three plastic bags impeding his gait. Elle watched her brother struggle like the consummate brat but Peter rushed to assist, receiving a thank you while Elle was the recipient of a dirty look. She shrugged it off and went back to reading her ill-gotten comic.

"Nice to see that you're back from the dead, Pete," Alex chided. "Unmolested by Elle, hopefully."

Elle glanced up from the comic to stick her tongue out at her big brother then simply went back to reading.

"I _think_ she was a good girl," Peter played along, helping to unpack the supplies onto the kitchen table.

"You look like death warmed over. Are you OK?"

"I'm fine," he lied. "It's just a little hot in here."

"Sorry. There's no air conditioning in this old building. The windows are open though. I'm going to make dinner while you and Elle figure out whatever you need to figure out from the paintings you stole."

Peter cringed from the blame in Alex's voice. "Yeah, about that…"

Alex raised his hands in a defensive gesture.

"Not passing judgement," he insisted, "just stating the obvious. Elle explained everything."

"Even about what happened to Isaac Mendez?"

Alex nodded solemnly.

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Alex shrugged similar to the way Elle shrugged.

"Mendez must've meant _something_ to you. He painted you often."

"I'm not sure if Isaac meant anything _positive_ to me though."

"What do you mean?"

"I dunno. Before, when we were walking to the loft Elle said 'Simone Deveaux better not be there.' Do you have any clue who this Simone is?"

Before Alex could reply there was a horrid shriek from the other room that came from Elle who sat up bolt right, looking back at the men.

"Simone Deveaux!" she exclaimed. "That _bitch_! She's dating my Isaac Mendez! Or she _was_ dating my Isaac Mendez. She vanished without a trace a few weeks ago." Then she glared at Peter with abrasive interrogation. "_Tell_ me you didn't have anything to do with _her_, Dave. I mean it. It's bad enough that she stole _Isaac_ from me but now she's gonna steal _you_?"

Peter returned to her a look of apology, his large hazel puppy eyes speaking for him.

"I'm sorry, Elle. It came back to me only a few minutes ago."

"_The bitch!_"

"Hey! It isn't her fault, Elle."

"What fucking ever, Dave!"

With all the indignant attitude of a crushed fangirl, she huffed off into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

"I guess we won't be going over the paintings now," Peter mumbled.

"She'll get over it."

"I didn't mean to hurt her feelings."

"I know. She's just passionate about her interests. Nobody else really understands that about her."

"Except for you."

Alex gave a wry smile.

"I'm her brother."

Those words uttered by his friend's sibling brought back another echo of memory. This time it wasn't with Simone Deveaux or Isaac Mendez but someone who was far more precious.

_Something is happening to me and I have this feeling that you're the only one who's gonna understand it._

Why _the hell would I understand that you think you can fly?_

_Because you're my brother._

The daze he fell into was broken when Alex called him for the fourth time and gave him a gentle nudge.

"Are you OK, man?" he asked.

"Yeah. Just another memory."

"It keeps coming back?"

"Looks that way."

"Good. Maybe you won't need to be bugged by Elle for much longer after all."

Peter half smiled.

"I _like_ being bugged by Elle. I regret disappointing her but I don't share her feelings."

"She'll get over it, Peter."

"Still…it hurts. I know it does. I don't like to hurt anybody."

"Yeah, nurse suits you."

Peter smiled again, the faint rosiness of a blush settling in his cheeks.

Distracted by a shuffle in the doorway, they found Elle standing there swinging a small blue cloth bag by its bright yellow drawstrings. Whatever was inside made the sound of small pebbles as she shook the satchel.

"Hey, Dave," she called in an indifferent tone. "Play a game with me."

Enlightened by this quick change of heart and enthusiastic to appease her after unintentionally hurting her, Peter readily agreed.

"What game?" he asked naively.

Holding up the bag, she shook it, creating the pebbled sound again.

"Reach in, pull out a jellybean and eat it. If you spit it out without swallowing, you lose."

Peter's eye brows scrunched low in confusion.

"What kind of a game is _that_?" he questioned.

With a sly, vindictive grin, Elle answered with the fierce scorn of unrequited love: "It's called Bertie Bott's."

--------------

At 7p.m. Archer arrived at the Millennium at the United Nation's bar a half hour sooner than he was scheduled to, feeling he needed the extra time alone to think about the corner he was painting himself into by being there. He had no right, no real reason to meet Grace in a setting that would further provoke any wrongful intentions. She was an exquisite woman with her long dark hair, crystal blue eyes, luscious full lips.

Forget the face, the starlet's body was every man's erotic dream. A slender hour-glass figure, large breasted, and mile long legs that continually wrapped around his waist in his fantasies throughout the day since the time they'd met. A quick search for pictures of her on the Internet earlier revealed to him that her stomach was concave and cut, her navel pierced. The navel ring was incredibly appealing to him, a blaring sign that Grace was a free spirit, and he guiltily felt his loins stir at thinking of kissing that marvellous stomach until he shifted uneasily in the bar chair. God, he _wanted_ her!

"Would you like another?"

The words disrupted his iniquitous musings and Grace's face faded, replaced by the bar tender's. He was holding up Archer's empty glass. The detective nodded and his whiskey was replenished. Archer's eyes roamed to the plasma screen over the bar that was tuned in to the ballgame live from Yankee Stadium. An avid fan, this was a rare occasion that he didn't even notice the score, establishing just how interested he was in Grace Gray.

His heart sank when his mind travelled to his wife Rebecca. He loved Rebecca and he knew she loved him. Yet as twenty-three years together passed he learned that they were no longer in love with each other. College freshman sweethearts, they at first could not keep their hands off of each other and married immediately after graduation. With him entering the police force and her becoming a lawyer they chose to not have children although he wanted them. But he agreed to the terms, knowing how difficult it would be to balance children with their chosen careers; he loved Rebecca and considered it a sacrifice to keep her in his life. The demand of their jobs forced them to spend less time together with each promotion they received, promotions rapidly attained because they were both risk-taking overachievers. Their relationship took a downturn as they grew apart and their once happy marriage converted into a marriage of convenience. They never argued, they never did anything drastic to each other. They just simply were. Perhaps that was what bugged Archer most. They converted from passionate lovers to respectful friends, never touching save for pecks on the cheeks in greetings or good-byes. Ruggedly handsome with a husky physique, he was masculine in the truest sense of the word and was aware that he could get another woman if he wanted to. If he and Rebecca separated he would have no trouble securing dates or at the very least one-night-stands. But loyalty to his marriage vows dissuaded him, and thus he felt trapped by a strangle hold of obligation and was at a loss for what to do.

_I don't want to hurt Becky but I _need_ to remember what it's like to be wanted!_

Not a single day passed where he escaped within himself, wondering what life would've been like had he put his foot down and demanded either a family or a divorce. Of course this also meant he needed to make career sacrifices just as well as Rebecca would have in order to accommodate children. Things could've been better. It could've worked. It could've. But now he would never have the chance to know because the one thing he never took a risk in obtaining was the one thing he wanted most of all. Worse, Rebecca seemed to have lost all romantic interest in him and he hadn't been touched intimately in _so long_.

Now he found himself lonely and desperately needing to be touched, wanting to feel needed again. He was well aware that those were his reasons for setting up this meeting with Grace. Proper protocol meant that he would've brought her to his office, or any room at the precinct or, for that matter, anywhere else rather than this very social, very personal setting. Maybe, just maybe, the gorgeous star would take an interest in him. He knew it was unrealistic for her to love him, marry him and give him a family but that wasn't what he wanted from her anyhow. Starved for any type of contact, he would've taken an undemanding brush of fingertips while reaching for something and left it at that.

Earlier when she was in the morgue she seemed vulnerable and needy, as anyone would've been while saying their final good-byes to a loved one. He wanted to embrace her in his strong arms, offering to comfort her and when she fled the room he was compelled to race after her. Why shouldn't he have been? Warm male blood still pulsed through his veins.

_What am I doing here? I have no right, I'm married! I can make all the excuses I want but this is wrong!_

Yet a man could dream, couldn't he? Couldn't take those away. Heaven knew that dreams were all Archer had left.

Slipping a hand into the pocket of his suit jacket, he toyed thoughtfully with the wedding ring he dared to remove before entering the hotel, debating right and wrong with himself. His phone vibrated loudly over the lacquered wood of the bar, drawing his relieved-to-be-distracted attention. Checking the screen, he saw the word _Coroner_ emblazoned across it. With a deep sinking feeling, he answered.

--------------

Thank god for celebrity, Grace thought as she entered the bar in the Millennium. If she hadn't been one of Hollywood's brightest stars she would've never secured a last minute room minus a reservation. Then where would she have been expected to sleep? The Hilton? She absolutely _refused_ to hand her hard-earned money over to a rotten undeserving heiress.

It did not take long for her to find Archer who already sat at the bar sipping from a drink in one hand, cell phone held up to his ear with the other. She paused to leer at the man unabashedly as he conversed with his caller. Her eyes trailed up the large arm, flexed from holding the phone up, and she could see his bicep through the sleeve of his shirt. Lewd thoughts coursing through her dirty mind, raw animal attraction made her shiver. There was no doubt she wanted him and intended on having him, one way or another. His suggestion to have this summit was all the permission she needed.

_Gabriel first, Grace! Gabriel first!_

Heeding the words that had become her mantra since her introduction to the striking detective, she shook her head to cleanse her thoughts. Archer had important business to discuss, business relating to Gabriel, and she had to stay focused on his words rather than his muscular arms or broad chest or anything below the belt. He closed his phone ending the call then finished the remainder of his drink, clearing her for the grand reception she wanted to give. Anxious to hear what he had to say, she rushed toward him with a dignified and aggrandized saunter then seated herself in the chair beside him.

"Miss Gray!" he addressed, looking slightly startled. "Good to see you again."

She gave a sarcastic smile then replied, "I'll bet it is."

She ordered her usual vodka on the rocks, leaning over enough to grant her companion a sneak preview of what was beneath her low cut blouse. As she reached into her purse for cash Archer performed the suitable gentlemanly duty of paying for it. Thanking him, she sipped from the glass then began her questioning.

"So what's happening? Who is this Peter Petrelli character you asked me if Gabriel knew? Lately I've been hearing his name more often than I've heard my own, like he's some Manhattan VIP or something."

"You're not far off with that, Miss Gray. He's the brother of newly elected Congressman Nathan Petrelli. His mother Angela Petrelli reported him missing and put an all points bulletin out on him."

"Excuse my bluntness but what the hell does he have to do with Gabriel?"

This was a poker game of sorts and she wasn't about to unveil her good hand until she knew she was a winner. Grace decided before she arrived that she was going to withhold the information that Gabriel owned a list containing Nathan and Peter Petrelli's names. She would ask baiting questions then listen closely to get inside news on Gabriel's case.

"First off, Miss Gray, I must stipulate that you to keep it quiet that I'm releasing this information to you. We aren't supposed to tell anyone everything, not even family members, as a process to weed out the guilty."

"How come you're doing it for me, then? How do you know for certain I didn't kill my brother?"

"You were in L.A. filming a new movie. Both your assistant Anna and Connor Fleming collaborated that alibi for you. It checked out."

She smiled at the astute game he was playing in return.

"Very crafty of you," she complimented.

"It's my job. It's a standard routine check."

"Why do you think you can trust me?"

"Gut instinct."

"Then by all means, proceed."

Nodding gratitude to the bar tender for the unrequested refill he swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey before continuing.

"As I mentioned during our earlier phone conversation, we believe that your brother is linked to another homicide investigation. Today we got an anonymous tip that an artist by the name of Isaac Mendez was murdered."

"I've heard something about that today."

_Not to mention the name was on a list in my brother's apartment!_

"When forensics dusted the place for prints they lifted a set that didn't belong to Mendez. This same person was linked to a similar slaying of a Union Wells High School cheerleader by the name of Jackie Wilcox out in Odessa, Texas. Someone cut off the top of her head and removed her brain. The exact same thing happened to Mendez."

"Gabriel didn't have the top of his head removed. His body was intact."

"True, but since this person is the suspect in two uniquely related killings already…"

"It's plausible that he may be responsible for _Gabriel's_ death."

They were suddenly distracted by a pretty teenager entering the lounge with an older man who sat at a table on the floor. A waiter approached them with menus almost immediately as they were the only other additional customers there. Grace haughtily thought that the girl was alluring enough to be a movie star herself then wondered if the man with her really was her father.

_Probably her lover, the disgusting thing!_

The teen made eye contact with her and Grace knew from her expression that she identified her. As the girl nudged her companion and spoke in an excited whisper, the star turned her back to the couple again.

"That's what we believe, Miss Gray," Archer sustained. "There were two sets of prints found on two separate paintbrushes in the loft. One set belonged to our suspect, the other to your brother."

Grace's gorgeous face contorted with consternation.

"Gabriel was friends with an _artist_? Huh."

"You find that unusual?"

"My brother habitually kept to himself, detective. To my knowledge, his only company had been our mother and the employees at the family watch shop that he ran. He had no friends."

"He obviously had one in Mendez. Even though we've determined that he was the one who killed your mother, we do not believe that he is liable for Mendez's death. Your mother died from a stab wound and, to our knowledge, your brother was not in Odessa at the time of the cheerleader's death. Based on our own evidence and evidence from the Wilcox investigation, our other suspect is linked to both Mendez and Odessa. We believe this other individual killed your brother in a rage, perhaps a crime of passion."

Grace sputtered on her drink, nearly choking.

"A crime of _passion_? So your suspect is a _woman_?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Are you telling me that my brother was involved in a homosexual love triangle?"

"It seems likely."

"Gabriel wasn't _gay_. I would've known if he was _gay_."

"Then do you have a female lead we can check out? A girlfriend? Lover? Maybe an unrequited love interest who may have been involved with Mendez?"

"No, I _told_ you. He kept to himself. There were no girlfriends and there were certainly no boyfriends. Gabe was almost a virgin."

Almost, she remembered, except for the night she walked into his room and unwittingly discovered activities of which she had no business interfering with. She cringed at the implications of what other corrosive affairs Gabriel could've secretly been involved with. She didn't believe he would be into other men but she had to confess that her brother's sexuality tended to lean on the ambiguous side. There was no telling what desperate acts loneliness could drive one to.

"I _hate_ to spring this on you," Archer interrupted her thoughts, "but you may be apt to change your mind with these findings."

"Another man?"

"I'm afraid so, Miss Gray."

Grace laughed and by natural default it was a throaty, sensual one.

"Gabriel did _not_ have a sordid tryst with an artist and a murderer, detective!" she stoutly averred. "Come on! Be truthful."

"I'm stating fact and professional speculation based on those facts. It's your choice to ultimately believe what I tell you or not."

"Well, excuse me if I don't believe just this _one_ particular thing. But we've digressed from my original question. I'm confused a little. You've mentioned Peter Petrelli to me twice already. What does Petrelli have to do with my Gabriel?"

She already knew the answer without inquiring but she continued playing her game like a lion stalking prey. Both Peter and Nathan Petrelli along with Isaac Mendez the murdered artist were incriminated by the list found in Gabe's panic room. It was obvious who her opponent's missing jigsaw piece was before he confirmed it.

"He's our suspect, Miss Gray."

Grace remembered vividly every minute detail about the picture of Peter Petrelli on the missing poster back at the precinct. The large doe-like eyes, the high cheek bones, the full heart-shaped lips, the boyish face. It was easy to see how an abject Gabriel would fall for such a beauty. But Petrelli had a baby face, not the face of a killer.

"_He_ killed my brother? With a _sword_? He doesn't even look like he could _lift_ a sword. No offense but I don't see how a puny thing like Peter Petrelli could manage…"

"It takes all kinds and New York has them all. We're still sketchy on the details so we don't know if Gabriel was sleeping with Petrelli or with Mendez…or with both. We think that it's why Petrelli is on the run. His mother reported him missing this morning."

"This is going to take time to soak in. What exactly happened in Odessa?"

"Petrelli was found at the crime scene covered in blood so he was apprehended by the FBI for questioning. During his interrogation tests were done on the blood but it was his own. Not a drop belonged to Jackie Wilcox so he was released. A girl, another cheerleader, was a witness to the entire incident. She said that another man attacked her and Wilcox when Petrelli rushed in to protect them. It was too late for the victim but the witness said Petrelli distracted the real killer while she ran away. The girl turned out to be Petrelli's own niece, even though neither of them knew it at the time." He paused to finish off his drink then rose from his stool. "Could you excuse me? I need to use the men's room."

"Of course."

She watched him leave with obsequious interest, thinking he wasn't at all uneasy on the eyes. Her thoughts transitioned smoothly from Archer's rear end to the fine features of her brother's alleged lover Peter Petrelli. If Gabriel was gay then at least he had impeccable taste. She hoped that he was equally discriminating with Mendez. An overwhelming desire to get her hands on a picture of the painter structured an abundance of possibilities, each depicting a tormented, paint splattered scruffy ruffian lithe in stature and rugged yet pretty of face. His harsh attractiveness would contrast nicely with the fragile features of the other man.

Then she placed her invented Mendez in a bedroom scenario with Petrelli where a wealth of assorted debaucheries which may have actually transpired took place in her fantasy. The couple sat on an unmade bed, kissing with feral passion, their hands roaming each others' taut bodies in hungry exploration. Because she did not wish to imagine her brother in a sexual manner, Gabriel played voyeur to the pair while sitting in a dark corner, joining them only to replenish their glasses with more red wine to urge them further with their surfeit of carnal desires. In a spur of creativity, the artist positioned his lover on his back. Dipping his index finger into his glass of Merlot, he then proceeded to implement the wine as paint, staining ruddy geometric patterns across the other man's chest before licking it off with a greedy tracing of his tongue. Petrelli arched his back, twisted and moaned with unbridled yearning, clutching at the painter's unruly dark hair while his wine-drenched nipple was nursed from.

Gabriel inched to the edge of his chair, deeply engrossed on the pretty boys writhing on the bed before him. Outside a storm raged with dramatic lightning flashes to set the mood as one of them brought out the baby oil. The couple divested each other of the remainder of their clothing and the oil was applied to heated groins. Aggressively grinding against each other, the friction proved too much for Petrelli who came between them with a whimper. Tenderly kissing his spent lover, Mendez thrust and smoothly entered him, thrusting with mounting lust that expired with a deep shove and a growl that rivalled the thunder.

"Excuse me," a mellifluous voice penetrated her fantasy. "Miss Moriarty?"

The internecine three-way disintegrated from her mind. Usage of her stage name forewarned her that it was a fan who dared interrupt her thoughts. Snapping back to her senses, she found the stunning face of the blonde girl who'd abandoned her table to make an impeded approach while she was alone. Rankled that the teen desecrated her pervy daydream, she invoked her acting ability and offered her most affable smile when she only wanted to electrocute the teen.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," the girl persevered timidly, a smile as radiant as her golden hair. "I'm a _huge_ fan. I've seen _everything_ you've been in. I was wondering, if it isn't too much trouble, if I could _please_ have your autograph?"

Grace's false smile widened. It was a necessary evil for A-listers to shrewdly market their personalities with benignant interactions with the common people as it kept box office returns high. Looking over the girl's shoulder, she noticed that the man presumed to be her father was outside in the lobby engaged in a cell phone conversation. Not wanting to prolong this encounter much further and intending to rid herself of the girl before Archer returned, she agreed with an inviting, "Of course, sweetheart."

She took the pen and napkin that the girl provided but waited with internal impatience while the girl slipped into a eupeptic ramble.

"I can't believe my luck," the teenager babbled, her voice a breathy sigh in her excitement. "I've been having _such_ a bad day then I came in here and saw you. My heart stopped beating. This means so much to me right now. You have _no_ idea, Miss Moriarty."

"Grace. Please. Call me Grace. Who am I making this out to?"

"I'm sorry! I'd forget my head right now if it wasn't attached!"

"That's perfectly alright, hun."

"My name's Claire. Claire Bennet."

--------------

**Author's Note: **Yay! Somehow I pulled off an amazing feat and I actually managed to edit this chapter despite Real Life obstacles! I will continue to try my damnedest to get the continuing chapter to you next Monday but I cannot guarantee it. Fortunately I am a woman of many surprises so keep your fingers crossed. Hope you've enjoyed this installment and that you will join me for the next one.

With Love,  
Lupinus


	6. Issue 6

--------------------

"From their struggles to establish dominance over each other, siblings become tougher and more resilient. From their endless rough-housing with each other, they develop speed and agility. From their verbal sparring they learn the difference between being clever and being hurtful. From the normal irritations of living together, they learn how to assert themselves, defend themselves, compromise. And sometimes, from their envy of each other's special abilities they become inspired to work harder, persist and achieve."  
-- Adele Faber, Elaine Mazlish

Chapter 6

"Claire," repeated Grace as she scribbled a quick personalized autograph on the napkin's limited space. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."

Claire blushed faintly.

"Thanks. I pale in comparison to you."

Grace puffed up with the grandiosity that originally made her a star.

"Thank you. I'm glad I made you feel better and brightened your bad day."

"You have. Believe me. You can't believe how terrible…" She released a lyrical laugh rife with nervousness. "I'm sorry, Miss Moriarty…"

"Grace."

"Grace. I shouldn't be putting my business out there, least of all not to _you_. This is my one golden opportunity to make an impression on my favourite actress and I can't burden you with my problems, especially since I'm already intruding on your date…"

"Don't worry about it. I'm just happy to have given you some joy today."

The movie star handed her fan the autographed napkin, just in time for Archer to finally step back into the lounge.

"Thank you so, _so_ much," Claire finished. "Keep up the great work."

Then she dashed back to her table, far more jovial than when she approached. Grace smiled in spite of herself when she overheard the thrilled and rapid words of the girl as she recapped the brief discussion with her favorite star to her companion who _did_ turn out to be her father.

"Met with a young fan?" Archer asked as he returned to his seat.

"Yeah. Cute kid. Told me she was having a bad day but I made it better."

"That must boost your own spirits."

"I do what I can for others. I don't have the luxury that _she_ does."

"What do you mean?"

"My brother was murdered and you hypothesize that he was involved in a homosexual threesome which could've been the reason behind his death. Personally this is a lot to digest so I'm _not_ peachy keen and it would take a hell of a lot more than meeting my favorite movie star to make _me_ feel better."

Archer's face reflected remorse.

"I'm sorry; I just thought it would help bring closure. You _did_ want to be informed of any details germane to Gabriel's case."

"No, _I'm_ sorry, detective. Truth is it _did_ make me feel better."

She swallowed the remainder of her drink and scooted over so that the proximity between her and the cop shrank. Archer's eyes widened then dropped to the hand that Grace officiously squeezed his inner thigh with.

"There are _other_ things that _may_ make me feel marginally better."

Archer smiled awkwardly.

"Miss Gray…"

"Grace."

"Grace, I should've mentioned this before. I'm…married. Happily."

"Liar," she accused.

"Excuse me?" Archer could not believe his ears at the blatant remark.

"If you were _happily_ married, I don't think you would've offered to meet me here. And if you were, at the very least you'd be wearing your wedding ring."

"It's part of my job…"

"Meeting women in the _bars_ of the _hotels_ they stay at?"

"If I need to, I do."

Grace released an evocative laugh.

"Happily or not, I really don't care," she admitted. "But I call your bluff, detective."

Archer watched with a helpless fascination as the lithe star rose from the stool and walked a few feet away before she stopped and glanced seductively over her shoulder.

"Coming?" she coaxed with as a seductive valediction.

Archer raised his eye brows, taken aback that this was happening, swallowed the rest of his drink then muttered to himself: "Not yet."

He left enough money on the counter to close out their tab then followed Grace out of the room, ignoring the flash of an incriminating camera.

--------------------

His call ended, Noah was returning to the table where Claire now sat alone at the same moment that the movie star his daughter had been ogling since they arrived was leaving with her date in tow. The men's shoulders unintentionally collided, the diva's man muttering an apology to Noah who graciously accepted. Claire's sparkling eyes never left the couple, utterly star struck.

"Dad!" she murmured blithely. "Did you _see_ that?! She _talked_ to me! I can't believe _Grace_ _Moriarty_ talked to me!"

"That's great," he retorted with the warm smile of a doting parent. "Did she give you an autograph?"

Claire beamed more radiantly than Heaven's light.

"Yes she did! Look!" She presented him with the signed napkin. "Her handwriting is so pretty it's like calligraphy or something. And she's _so_ _nice_! So sophisticated and polished." She sighed. "I hope that someday _I_ can be like _her_."

"If she's lucky she'd be half the person you already are, Claire-Bear."

Claire blushed vaguely then smiled broadly before replying, "She's a tough act to follow. I don't know if I could measure up."

"You don't have to measure up to her standards. She's her and you're you and you're as good as she is if not better."

"Well, I am _totally_ thrilled to have met her. She's my inspirational hero."

"If she knew the truth _you_ would be _hers_."

"We have to buy a frame for it tomorrow." She took the autograph from Noah and slipped it into her purse. "First thing when the gift shop opens. I don't want it to get ruined."

Things fell silent between them as the waiter brought their order to the table and Claire's eyes widened to resemble those of her Uncle Peter's when she saw the enormous cheeseburger placed in front of her.

"Oh my god!" she cried. "I am _so_ hungry! Did you just hear my stomach growl?"

"Nope," Noah answered, amused by her humility. "Didn't hear a thing."

"I bet I could eat every crumb on my plate."

She used the knife to cut her burger in half then reached for the jar of catsup that was given a mixing shake before squeezing a hefty amount in a mountain next to her fries. Noah watched as she ravenously shoved a few fries into her mouth and added the lettuce and tomato left on the side beneath the roll.

"This is _so_ good!" she mumbled, covering her stuffed mouth with her hand.

"Then it was worth it."

"Grease is always worth it. At least at_ my_ age it is."

Noah watched affectionately as she ravenously ate, leaving his own platter untouched. She was so beautiful that he didn't think he could bear it. No-one else, except for his wife Sandra, could compare.

It was a tragedy that he would have to soon break her heart. The phone call he took while Claire met her favorite movie star was actually in reference to her favorite relative and the news was disparaging. The Company was the Mafia of this strange and new world of evolved humans and it liked to liked to maintain a keen watch on those known to have special abilities if for nothing more than for usance in persuading them to see things in the Company's way. This meant acquiring as much physical proof for these persuasion techniques as possible. At some point a sample of Peter's blood had been acquisitioned in a way he dared not inquire about but after Claire learned she was Nathan Petrelli's daughter Noah wanted to secure his own position. That was why The Haitian had been instructed to confiscate the blood sample from the vaults and have it smuggled away to a safe deposit box for this precise moment.

Noah liked Peter very much but he knew what the young man was capable of and not just in the superpower sense. Peter was Claire's lodestone to the Petrellis and that jeopardized his daughter in ways that he strove to avoid. Regardless of anything he could say or do to prevent otherwise, Peter would always be a black hole sucking Claire back beneath the Petrelli dark wing. After being scorched by hellfire to protect her, Noah wanted the Petrellis erased from Claire's life. Even Peter. Now he had justification for that self-serving desire.

The Haitian had been on the opposite end of the line bearing news of test results which had been conducted on the sample of Peter's blood. The younger Petrelli brother's presence was more of a risk than anticipated.

--------------------

By the way Elle returned from the bedroom with a manner of indifference and the bag of jelly beans, Peter should've known something sneaky was about to take place. She'd disappeared into the bedroom in a fit of jealousy yet returned with an offer to play a game. As they took places across from each other at the kitchen table, Alex began bustling about preparing dinner; Peter felt that agreement to play Elle's game would be bad news for him in one way or another.

"Remember the rules," Elle reminded in a laconic tone. "You _have_ to eat whatever you pull out."

"OK, OK, I get it," Peter responded, unenthused.

"Cuz if you spit it out you _lose_."

Her voice was so stern it was like a spider dancing across his skin.

"Fine," he concurred. "Anything to make peace again."

"Fine." She shook up the bag, drew it open then extended it toward him. "You first. Peter."

He gave her a hurtful look for the inhospitable way she spat his name then dipped his hand into the bag and removed a white colored jelly bean. His hesitation procured another frosty prodding from Elle.

"C'mon, Pete. Grow some balls, babe."

Holding her dissented gaze, he popped the jelly bean into his mouth and chewed. Elle appeared anxious and he puzzled.

"What does it taste like?" she inquired edgily.

"Like buttered popcorn," he answered and she did not hide her dismay. "It's good."

"Yeah, yeah. My turn."

She shook the bag, reopened it, reached in and without looking, popped the sweet into her mouth. The anxiety she initially had ebbed as she chewed.

"Well?" he asked.

"Cinnamon."

She repeated the shake of the bag and proffered it back to him. For a second time he reached in and, more confident, put it into his mouth to be chewed without being checked.

"Bubble gum."

"_Damn!_"

The bag was shaken again and truculent Elle took another. This time an unpleasant expression spread across her adorable face.

"What flavor is it?" Peter questioned with piqued interest.

"Never mind," Elle insisted, swallowing with difficulty.

"No, tell me. Play fair."

She quickly muttered a word he thought sounded like dirt but it was masked behind the rattle of the jellies inside the bag as she shook them again. He shoved the notion of a dirt flavored jelly bean out of his head; who the hell would invent such a thing? Then it was his turn. Following her daring lead, he again put what he extracted inside his mouth without looking. The nervous look on his face disappeared.

"Tastes like marshmallow," he told her.

"God_damn_ it, Dave!"

Outraged, she emptied the candy onto the table top, sorted through them, singled one out and dropped it into his hand.

"Here!" she demanded vehemently. "Eat it!"

_This is going to be good! _Peter heard Elle proclaim yet her mouth did not move. Surprised, he asked before thinking, "Excuse me?"

"I said eat it."

"No, you said something after that."

Elle looked at him like he had two heads.

"No I didn't. Just take this one and eat it."

_It's rotten egg! He's going to _hate_ me for this! Serves him right!_

So he _had_ heard correctly when she said dirt! The little sneak was setting him up! Peter's expression held incredulity and disappointment that she would try to humiliate him in any way after all they had been through. He didn't deserve her ill treatment. His heart cracked beneath the weight of her insult. It wasn't his fault that he could not reciprocate her feelings. He was still new to himself and couldn't even remember the face of the woman who he obviously had been in love with. For those things alone he felt horrible and now Elle was trying her damnedest to make him feel worse.

"Will it set things right between us?" he asked softly, keeping secret the transmission of her thoughts to his mind in case he needed it to his future advantage. "Will we be OK if I do this?"

She gawked at him with such sinister intent that he expected to combust from the heat of it. But that look melted into itself and the blatant hate vanished as she finally nodded.

"Good," he stated, his tone softer still.

Taking the rotten egg jelly bean from his palm, he braced himself as he slipped it into his mouth and tentatively chewed. At first he thought he would be able to control his disgusted expression but the flavor was so rancid that he was rendered incompetent in the task.

"Oh, _god_!" he complained, trying his best not to gag. "That's _disgusting_!"

"You _have_ to eat it!" repeated Elle with too much alacrity for his liking.

He forced himself to chew, the taste exacerbated when he found that he could not manage to swallow the cursed thing. Elle opted to perform a small act of mercy by reaching into her purse and handing him an Altoid from a small tin. He readily accepted it, putting the mint into his mouth with the jelly bean and waited until the foulness of the previous candy sweetened before swallowing the confectionary goo, saving the Altoid to continue sucking on.

"Thanks," he told her.

"Don't mention it," she returned, her grudge resolved.

"Do me a favor now," Alex finally spoke up. "Get the hell out of here so I can cook dinner."

"You heard the Boss Man, Dave. Now let's take a look at those paintings."

Elle led the way back into the living room, the bag of jelly beans abandoned on the kitchen table much to the absolved Peter's relief. Elle sat Indian style on the floor in front of the stack of paintings propped up one behind the other against the coffee table while Peter sat in the lawn chair, leaning close. For some reason that was when he first noticed that Elle smelled like vanilla and his spirits were lifted by the light scent.

"OK," Elle began to prepare herself for deepened thought as if they were cramming for a test. "This is the one _you_ painted. I put it on top because it was still wet when we got home. Do you recognize her?"

Peter scrutinized the dark haired beauty in his smeared and wrecked painting. Surrounded by numerous volts of lightning she appeared to be in a morgue, a scenario that gave him the creeps.

"I don't know who she is," he stated, the gears in his mind working strenuously to remember. "Not a single clue."

"Well, _I_ know who she is."

Shocked by this out of the blue declaration, Peter gazed at her in wonder.

"You _do_? Who is she? How do you know?"

"_Everybody_ knows who she is. At first it's hard to tell but you can see it after looking…It's Grace Moriarty."

"Who?"

"_Only_ one of the _biggest_ names in Hollywood. Duh, Dave!"

Peter shrugged naively and Elle gave him a mild nudge.

"Suppose you're in love with _her_ too."

"I don't think I know her. _Why_ would I personally know a Hollywood celebrity?"

"Your family is rich and powerful. Maybe she's an ex-girlfriend."

"I don't think so. That doesn't feel _right_."

"That'd be why she's an _ex_, Dave."

"No, there's nothing there. I'm confident I've never met her."

"If you say so."

"Why would I paint her?"

"I don't know. But there are rumors abound on _Entertainment Tonight_. Seems like on the night I found you she was in the middle of filming a new movie when she quit and caught a plane to New York. So…she's here. Turns out she's originally from Queens. Her only known relatives, her mother and brother, were murdered."

"_Murdered?_"

"Yeah. They aren't releasing details yet so they could sort things out. You know, catch glory hounds who want to make false confessions. They did say that her brother killed their mother but they think it may have been accidental. They say that he was murdered soon after."

"But why is she surrounded by lightning? What does she have to do with me?"

"I dunno. I told you. Maybe you're psychic. For him to paint his own death it seems like Isaac was clairvoyant so maybe that was your common bond with him. You can turn invisible and regenerate. You're like one of the X-Men or something. I'm going to start calling you Rogue."

"Who's Rogue?"

"She's a mutant who can absorb powers."

"You think _I'm_ a mutant?"

"_I_ can't turn invisible, Pete."

Remnants of another conversation he swore he once had revisited him and he fell into surreal thought.

_Do you ever get the feeling like you were meant to do something extraordinary?_

_I'm driving a cab, you may have noticed._

_No, I'm not talking about what you do, I'm talking about who you are. I'm talking about being special._

_Yes, we are all special._

_That's not what I meant._

_Some individuals, it is true, are more special. This is natural selection. It begins as a single individual born or hatched like every other member of their species, anonymous, seemingly ordinary, except they're not. They carry inside them the genetic code that will take their species to the next evolutionary rung. It's destiny._

"Dave? Dave?" Then louder: "_Peter_!"

"I'm sorry. I was just remembering…something."

"That's good. I suppose. What was it?"

"Just something someone said to me before. I've been remembering stuff on and off lately."

Elle perked up.

"That's great!" she exclaimed.

"None of it has meant much though. Just stuff about my brother mostly."

"What has it been telling you?"

"I seemed to be more attached to him than he was to me. I remember my mom telling me that I looked up to him but he looked down on me. I hate to admit it but she might've been right. I remember going to him for advice, to talk about something important to me and he brushed me off, said I was delusional. I…thought I could…fly."

"_Fly?!_"

"Yeah. Fly. And he _mocked_ me. _My own brother._ Isn't he supposed to _believe_ me instead of _humiliate_ me in front of a room full of people by telling them I'm mentally ill and delusional?"

This unexpected outburst of fury startled both of them and Peter halted his rant as suddenly as it started.

"Where did _that_ come from?" he wondered aloud.

"Old resentments resurfacing. Wow. You can _fly_."

_I'm sorry but you're going to have to go, OK?_

_Hey, you know what? I'm just going to fly off the terrace, yeah? No? Hey, I can fly. Nathan, so can you. Tell you what. Why don't we just race around the Statue of Liberty real quick, huh? Give this tweedy guy somethin' to write about?_

_You wouldn't._

"_Allegedly_ can fly," he corrected.

"You _know_ you can. Look at all the other stuff you can do. I'll bet telling the future is one of those things too. You mark my words."

"What's the next painting?"

Elle moved the marred canvass that Peter painted off to the side, unveiling the next one beneath. It was the Kirby Plaza scene.

"That's you and Isaac's villain," reminded Elle. "Maybe Isaac was being metaphorical."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you stole his girlfriend so he's probably pretty damned pissed off at you."

"I didn't _steal_ his girlfriend."

"Oh yeah? Got proof of that, lover boy?"

An awkward silence ensued between them as Peter was at a loss for words.

"Maybe his villain - cuz I told you he's the same one in the comics - is supposed to be a representation of Isaac himself. Maybe this is a fantasy he had to relieve frustrated tension over what you did."

"I didn't _do_ anything…"

"In other words, this was his way of kicking your ass."

Annoyed by her cynical suggestion, Peter barked, "Next painting."

Elle shrugged off his disputing tone and simply moved the top painting over. Beneath was the one of the cheerleader lying dead and bleeding on the steps with the top of her head cut off, fallen in the dark umbra of her killer's shadow as he lurked the background.

"Here's the one I wanted to see," Peter muttered almost to himself as he joined Elle on the floor and reached up towards the female figure on the canvass.

"What? Is _she_ your lover _too_?" Elle shot the disparaging comment before she considered what she was implying.

This time Peter returned her coldness.

"She's a _child_, Elle," he snapped. "They have names for men who screw around with underage girls and I'm _not_ one of them." Then in a softer pitch as he centered back on the girl in the painting, "Besides, there's something _more_ than that. I feel a deeper _bond_, a powerful _connection_ with her."

Remembering the article in his pocket, he restlessly retrieved it, unfolding the paper and skimming the story for confirmation of what he knew was printed there.

"Here!" he said excitedly. "I have a _niece_! Claire! She's looking for me!"

He stared at the female figure in the artwork.

"Claire!" he murmured to it. "It's _her_! I _know_ it is!"

"Why would Isaac paint the villain of his comic book chasing your _niece_?"

"Maybe because of what you said before. It was his way of getting revenge. He wanted to destroy me by taking away everything I love but he did it through his art. I saw another painting of her being chased by this same man. Those paintings tell a story. First she ran from him, then he killed her. Cut off the top of her head."

Peter knew that if Isaac predicted the future of his own death in such a similarly graphic manner then this painting of who he believed to be Claire was likely to herald the girl's death as well. As far as he knew the cheerleader was still alive, at least as of the writing of the article.

_Save the cheerleader, save the world!_

The refluent motto resounded back from one of his lost memories, inspiring him. Raising the precious objet trouvé up to read through the text again and hoping for more clues or at the very least a description of his niece, Peter grew inspired at having another chapter of his mysterious life unfolding and didn't notice the sudden look of realized horror on Elle's face.

"Peter!" she squeaked, her throat tight. "Look on the back!"

Not liking how she sounded, he flipped over the article to see what she was frantic over. On the other side was a picture of a man who bore a striking resemblance to Peter's Kirby Plaza adversary.

--------------------

Dinner in the Petrelli household was tense and stagnated with the only sound being the clinking of silverware against china. It was the type of dinner that children were dismissed from so Heidi Petrelli had dismissed her progeny to have dinner at the house of a close family friend. Tonight it was just her and Angela, the hellacious matriarch of the mansion.

"Don't you think it would've been a nice gesture to have invited Claire to dinner tonight since she's still in town?" Heidi questioned benignly enough. "She is a member of this family and she _is_ a part of Nathan."

But there was no such thing as an amicable question if it went against the lady of the manor.

"Claire is preoccupied with her hunt for Peter," Angela replied briskly. "She sees what she wants to see."

"And what is that?"

"She has this silly notion that I don't care about Peter."

"In all due respect, it seems as if she's right. You don't exactly seem broken up about his death…"

"_My son is _not_ dead!!_"

The unpredicted outburst took Heidi aback. The room fell as quiet and as chilly as a crypt while Angela perpetuated her imposing poise.

"Peter is _not_ dead," she reiterated, raising her chin in the customary manner.

"How do you know for sure? He's been missing…"

"I know. It's mother's intuition. Certainly you understand that, you're a mother yourself. Peter is not dead."

"I don't understand what could've happened to him or why he would've chosen to vanish in the middle of the night without warning or explanation. It goes against his nature. I know he had problems and was suffering from his father's depression and delusions but he _loves_ this family. Why would he be so irresponsible? He's a nurse, the epitome of dependability."

"Peter had his secrets as do we all."

"Maybe he went back to Vegas."

Not understanding what was meant by the statement, Angela looked at her daughter-in-law with haughty wonder.

"Why on Earth would he be in Vegas?"

"Isn't that where he said the clinic was that he and Nathan checked out previously? Poor Peter! Maybe he couldn't handle the stress or he realized he was sicker than he thought and he needed to admit himself."

Angela's stern countenance lightened retrospectively. With all the chaos of the few previous days she'd forgotten about the Vegas clinic; it was an ideal excuse to tell the family and help quell suspicion. The clinic excuse was made even more feasible because Nathan's disappearance coincided with Peter's. Heidi was oblivious about the special family she'd been married into and for now Angela deemed it mandatory that she remain that way. It was for the good of the family, as was everything she did.

"Perhaps," she granted. "I will give the clinic a call and ask if Peter is there."

"It's amazing, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"How opposite Peter and Nathan are. Nathan being so ruthless and Peter so tender. One has what the other lacks. You couldn't get more contradictory ends of a spectrum. In my opinion, Nathan can go a little lighter on his baby brother. Oh, he can use his political career as an excuse to do it but I am always on his case about excluding Peter. I pretend that I don't to keep the peace around here but I notice the mean-spirited jokes Nathan passes off to Peter at his expense. Like that ladies' shoe he gave to him as a gift during his graduation party. I asked him nicely not to do that but he insisted Peter would appreciate the joke. It hurt Peter's feelings if you ask me. He was good natured enough to take it in stride but deep down I could see that it bothered him. Peter adores him and Nathan prefers to make fun of him."

But Angela, lost in thought, didn't hear a word of Heidi's burst of chattiness. It was odd that this was as quiet as her house had ever been. Her grandchildren off for the night, her own children missing. Where _were_ her boys? If someone didn't return soon she thought she would lose her mind. And tonight Heidi didn't seem to want to shut her mouth.

She supposed she should've given her eldest son's wife some slack because she was probably going just as crazy with all of the confounded silence. Someone had always been around and now there was no-one. Heidi believed that Nathan was on a trip dealing with his new political career. She also believed that Peter was off in a Las Vegas mental health clinic. Heidi. Gorgeous, naïve Heidi. Never knew what she really married into.

Faintly smiling at her daughter-in-law, she dabbed her napkin at the corners of her mouth and said politely, "Would you excuse me, dear? I must step away for a moment."

Heidi returned the smile with a far more compassionate version.

"Of course."

As Angela left her at the dinner table, she was aware of the expression on Heidi's alluring face. So angelic in the moody glow of the room, so willing to accept the obvious as truth, so ignorant of the _real_ truth which danced before her.

_You see only what you want to see!_

Heidi wanted to believe that the Petrelli pedigree was perfect. So that was precisely what she got.

Entering the living quarters as if she was a grand dame entering a ballroom full of admirers despite the room's emptiness, she went straight for the bureau on the far side. Framed photographs aligned the top of the bureau and she selected one in particular of her sons, taken the year before Peter discovered he was special. Of course he'd _always_ _been_ special but he'd underappreciated himself and kept low key in his elder brother's daunting shadow.

Peter was her baby boy but even she couldn't fully see his untapped potential. But Charles Deveaux had seen it. It bothered her that someone else could see a greatness in her young son that she could not. The photograph had been taken in a time before the transition, when Nathan and Peter were as normal as any Petrelli ever had been.

She caressed the glass surface of the frame with the back of her fingers so the natural oils of her fingertips wouldn't smudge it. Her boys: both indispensable to her, one expendable in Linderman's plot of immolation. Originally she was to sacrifice one yet now she was at a total loss of both. It served her right for recruiting her baby as the weapon in Linderman's war against his will. Her heart was a grenade that threatened to detonate as she gazed upon Peter's happy, delicate features. Her motherly instincts to protect surged through her veins but it was too little too late. Prehensile and gullible, he was not like everyone else and he above all should've been protected. It was her motherly duty to protect him and Nathan was the one who took control of the situation and derailed Linderman's plot.

_Gone! My sons are gone! What will I do without them?_

"Mrs Petrelli?" Heidi's voice called from the doorway. "Are you alright?"

Clearing her throat, she retained her august posture and replied in an even tone: "Yes, I'm fine, Heidi. I will return in a moment."

Heidi didn't say anything in return but simply walked away, an action for which Angela was ingratiated for.

Perhaps she'd been too harsh in her angry feelings toward Peter. Hurt had made her lash out at the wrong person. Clutching the photo briefly to her heart, she allowed herself a few seconds of secret grief and dabbed at the tears before they were given the right to unreservedly fall. Then as if she'd felt nothing at all, she reset the photo back into its place on the bureau and returned to her game of make believe.

--------------------

"This _can't_ be happening," Peter doubted, looking from the man in the newspaper article on the reverse of what he tore out and to the painting before him. "This is just too much at all once. Elle, this man is _real_!"

"Yeah, I can _see_ that," she responded, taking the liberty to place a hand around his waist. "He definitely has some significance then, doesn't he? Isaac knew you both."

"I'm starting to think you're right. Isaac Mendez _could_ see the future."

"Not just _see_ the future. He _drew_ it. In his paintings _and_ in his comics."

"What do you mean?"

"I was afraid to say this until now because I thought it was too weird in spite of all the weirdness that we've been drowning in."

Peter watched as she retrieved the stolen comic from where she left it on the floor beside the chair.

"This was obviously Isaac's last comic," she informed, leafing through the pages hurriedly. "Look. His villain. Sylar."

Peter grimaced when he heard the name and Elle noticed.

"Does that name mean something to you?" she inquired.

"I don't know. I'm not sure yet."

"Well, according to the comic Sylar is a man with all of these incredible superpowers. Only thing is he wasn't born with them; he steals them by eating the brains of the original possessors of the powers."

Peter cringed in disgust.

"Your Isaac Mendez had one hell of an imagination."

"Truth is stranger than fiction, Dave, and it looks as if he's had some real life inspirations. Gabriel Gray looks _too much_ like Sylar for it to be coincidental. And let's not forget our own resident superhero."

"I'm _not_ a superhero."

"Ever see _Unbreakable_?"

"Is that another comic book?"

Elle shook her head and chuckled.

"No, Donnie Dorko, it's a _movie_. You know. Moving pictures on a big white screen."

"I know what a movie is, Elle."

"Alright, then. In _this_ particular movie Bruce Willis – he's an actor – plays this ordinary kinda dude who discovers that he's a superhero. Just out of the blue. Just like you."

Peter scoffed.

"Alright then, want more proof?" Elle propounded stubbornly. "Remember how we said that Isaac had to be able to tell the future because he painted his death unless he had an accomplice?"

"Yeah."

"One of the paintings I took I just grabbed without having the chance to look at it until we got back here."

Peter watched with restored interest as Elle removed the paintings of Grace Moriarty, the Kirby Plaza scene and that of the moribund cheerleader to unveil to him the one of which she was referencing. It was another one of Isaac's death self-portraits only this time the dead artist wasn't alone. A second man glowered over Isaac's corpse, palpably his killer; it was the same man in the Kirby Plaza scene albeit drawn in the familiar style of Isaac's hand.

"Looks like he killed Isaac," finished Elle. "Combining the story in the comic with the scenes in paintings Sylar killed Isaac to steal his precognitive powers. See? He cut off the top of his head and presumably ate his brain."

"Just like the cheerleader! If Sylar killed Isaac to steal his powers then he did the same thing to the girl in the painting! That means she has powers too! She _is_ Claire, I know it!"

"Expecting to come from a family of superheroes, aren't you?"

"I _can't_ be the _only_ one, Elle! _Some_ members of my family have to be like me, wouldn't you think?"

"This girl might not be your niece, Dave. What proof do you have that she is?"

"None. Yet. Nothing physical at least. Just a feeling in my heart."

Elle smiled tenderly at him but Peter felt odd, as if it was faintly condescending, which he did not understand given the fangirl believed them to be living in an Isaac Mendez comic book.

"Let's say that you're right and I'm some sort of superhero and Isaac Mendez was a real psychic. Then that would make Gabriel Gray – the perfect likeness of this Sylar character – a brain eating cannibal."

"Apparently so."

"Let me see that."

He took the comic from Elle's hand and turned through the pages. The story took place five years into the future when Sylar took presidency of the United States and systematically plotted genocide of others like him. Peter's heart stopped. Sylar was impersonating a man who greatly resembled…

"Nathan!"

"Huh?"

"My brother Nathan!" Commoved by discovery, he placed the article with his brotherly portrait alongside the panel in the comic book of Sylar-as-Nathan standing in the Oval Office and excitedly pointed back and forth between them. "Look! My brother Nathan!"

"Are you sure?"

"Positive! There's _no_ mistaking it!"

Elle scrutinized the news article and the comic, trying her hardest to make sense of all of the insanity that she helped to generate in Peter's mind.

"What happens in this comic, Elle?"

The young woman casually shrugged.

"Sylar becomes this invincible monster because he's stolen numerous powers which drive him totally insane. This little Japanese guy…the one in the paintings…saves the world from Sylar's eugenic ways by killing him. Uh oh."

"What?"

"He kills him with a sword."

Peter was speechless. Blinking several times then shaking his head to clear it he asked, "With a sword?"

"Yeah. A sword. Fuck."

Peter rose from his sitting position, as deep in thought as he'd ever been.

"The article says that Gabriel Gray was the man killed with the sword in Kirby Plaza," he muttered. "And _I'm_ the one in the painting with Gray."

Hearing the despondency in Peter's voice, Elle stood as the young man began to pace like a caged animal, consoling, "But according to _9__th__ Wonders!_ you didn't kill him. Hiro the Japanese guy was the one who killed him. And if _you're_ real and _Sylar_ is real then _Hiro_ has to be real too. Think about it, Pete. The scenario is identical. You've pegged yourself for a killer this entire time and you're not. And even if you were, Sylar was a _monster_, Peter. Countless lives were _saved_ because he _died_."

"If all of this is true, then where is Hiro?"

Elle shrugged again. "Don't know. But I think you'd better reconsider the possibility of you and Isaac having precognitive abilities."

"Yeah, it looks that way."

"You're amazing, my friend. You can do a lot. You can turn invisible, you can stop things with your mind, you can heal really fast, now you can tell the future. What else can you do, Pete? You're far more interesting to watch than a boring movie or TV show. You are _so_ _special_!"

_Whatever this is about, now is not the time._

_Charles Deveaux died this morning._

_I'm sorry. Were you there?_

_No, I wasn't. I stopped working for him so I could figure out what was going on with us._

_Yeah, I told you to drop all this "I'm special" crap._

_I can't, all right? I need your help._

The memory of his brother's spiteful words triggered by Elle's sentence sent chills down his spine.

"This is just too much all at once," he told her as he rose from the floor. "Excuse me, Elle, but I need some air."

"You _can't_ go outside! It's too dangerous! Peter, you could get arrested!"

Heading for the door, he stopped briefly to offer her one of his reassuring crooked smiles and told her: "Can't catch what they can't see, can they?"

Then he vanished, quite literally, and was out the door, the comic book still in his hand.

--------------------

At first when Archer opened his eyes he wasn't certain where he was until he saw the sleeping naked woman at his side and identified her as Grace Moriarty, famous Hollywood A-lister. He couldn't believe his miraculous stroke of luck but a damper was quickly put on it when he remembered that Grace Moriarty was also Grace Gray, the sister of a homicide victim and matricidal murderer.

"Shit!" he swore almost inaudibly.

Careful not to wake her, he sat up and wiped his face with his hands.

_What the hell have I_ done_? What was I_ thinking

Grace was a gorgeous young thing who any man, regardless of their marital status, would consider themselves extremely fortunate if they found themselves in his current place. But that wasn't how Archer felt. The caducity of his and Rebecca's love did not make this adultery right despite that he was starved for affection. Riddled with remorse, he was filled with derision for the violation of his wedding vows.

_How could I do this to Rebecca? She's a good woman who trusts me completely and is probably home worried sick!_

Hell, the detective didn't exactly know how this had even happened. The last thing he wanted to do was justify his behavior because in his eyes there was simply no way to do that, yet it was as if Moriarty lured him into her bed like a silver screen siren with a captive song and he had no other option but to submit. He was weak and obeyed, a slave who serviced her well into the night, as it seemed. Checking his watch he found it was after two in the morning. Among other things, the very least he owed Rebecca was a phone call to inform her that he was alive and well.

_But I won't be after she finds out why I'm not home in _our_ bed! I'm officially the worst kind of human garbage!_

That spoke volumes about how despicable he thought he was by sleeping with Grace. As an officer of the law for nearly half of his life, he dealt with human scum of all types, the majority of who never expressed personal guilt for their crimes. The reason he placed an adulterer in the murderers' den was because an adulterer more than likely lay beside the person they victimized. Unbeknownst to the usually undeserving victim the person next to him or her was a liar, a thief who stole the victim's trust and used it to his advantage.

Sighing, he ended the mental diatribe and peered down at the reason behind his infidelity, finding that he pitied the beauty. This night might have been a signal that she felt equally alone in the world. It was a shame for a woman with great physical beauty to own such a damaged soul. Losing her entire family all at once on the same night had to be the worst thing to happen to anyone. He didn't want to flatter himself in believing that he could begin to imagine how this poor woman felt. Perhaps this was his subtle, unconscious reason to sleep with her: to provide solace to a disheartened woman. Still there was no refuting that Grace Moriarty alias Grace Gray possessed a charisma and sexuality that was impossible to abstain from.

Even now he wanted to reach out and stroke her bare arm but restrained for fear that he would reengage in more unfaithful activity. Despite the fact that she projected a strong personality, this night proved to Archer that she was vulnerable and needy beneath. Perhaps her mother didn't love her enough; after all, she never impressed upon him that she cared her mother was dead. All she cared about was her brother. He was the only one she asked for, the only one she wanted to see.

_What would she do if she knew what _I_ knew?_

Dishonesty correlated with the territory of being a homicide detective, especially one working in Manhattan. It was against the rules to tell the entire story, in spite of wanting to, and there was something important and drastically bizarre that he didn't tell Grace about her brother's body. The day she visited the morgue to pay final homage to her brother his body had vanished. Archer had left the morgue to call headquarters and report the weird incident that sent Grace fleeing when he heard someone shuffling in the hallway. Yet when he turned to look he saw nothing but a door closing behind whoever had passed through it. Thinking it was the coroner, he was shocked to return to the morgue and discover the shaken man still there.

_I turned my back for only a moment!_ the coroner expounded frantically. _I heard somebody moving around behind me! I thought it was you coming back! But it _wasn't_ you!_

Perplexed, Archer questioned: _Who was it?_

The amazed coroner shook his head and replied, _I don't know! But Gabriel Gray is missing!_

What exactly it was that happened was still indefinite. Either someone hiding in the room stole the corpse for whatever reason or it walked off on its own as a zombie. Things were going haywire in New York at the moment but he was sceptical that Gabriel Gray was a reanimated cadaver. That was too far fetched, even for New York. Being that the body was evidence in a murder investigation it was unpardonable for it to be missing, not that it was tolerable for the morgue to lose _anybody's_ loved one, evidence or not. Every body that passed through that room was somebody's loved one and the remains were priceless.

Thinking of life's precious things brought him back to Rebecca and regret struck him like a hammer. That would never go away now, he knew. His trousers were slung over the small couch in front of the window; a bulge in one of the pockets outlined the form of his cell phone. Looking back at the slumbering celebrity then again to where he knew his phone was he felt the overwhelming demand to call his wife. He needed to risk making that call, no exceptions.

Slipping out of the bed, he retrieved the phone, dialing the programmed speed number for his home as he rushed discreetly into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. As suspected, Rebecca answered immediately.

"Oh my god, Ryan, _where_ have you been?!" she demanded in a stressed voice. "I've been worried _sick_!"

He trusted that she genuinely was worried, intensifying his blame.

"I know, honey, I know. Everything's alright. I…fell asleep at the office. I'm so sorry to worry you like this."

"You're at the office?"

It wasn't that her tone alluded to doubt, but rather it expressed concern which was what bothered him the most about his lie.

_Telling half the story is part of the job!_ he excused himself. _Especially if it gets you out of a tough spot!_

"Yeah," he fabricated. "I am. But I'm on my way home now. Just give me a half an hour. I'll be there."

"Well hurry up, OK?"

She still didn't sound incensed but rather relieved.

"OK. See you soon." Then he repentantly added, "I love you."

"Love you too."

But Archer knew it was an exchange of convenience rather than affection. He hung up and went back into the room to don his clothing, all the while keeping his eyes on Grace to make certain that she didn't stir from her deep repose. Then, tucking his shirt into his trousers, prudently left the hotel room fully aware of the Faustian deal he'd made just by being there.

--------------------

Reptilicus the fire breather was fond of walking the empty midway of Coney Island late at night after everyone else vacated the park. There was an ambient mystique contained within how the Cyclone and Wonder Wheel and other rides were silhouetted against a moonlit sky, eerily glowing in their monstrous proportions. It empowered him as he wandered, as if he became fused as one with the dark.

Tattooed and pierced to append his personal charm, surprisingly enough most of New York still was negligent with inviting him to social functions. Too many goddamned yuppies were taking over the once lenient albeit sleazy microcosm that was Manhattan. The nominal freaks still drifted around but were ignored out of repugnance rather than out of acceptance.

His meditative time was interrupted when he noticed a man standing at the edge of the pier, staring up into the heavens as if in an existential soul search. He held an exalted conduct as if he were Leonardo DeCaprio delivering his "I'm the King of the World!" line and yet there was something off about it. Unkempt and dishevelled, his clothing was tattered, blackened and singed in various areas as if he'd walked through a fire.

"Excuse me? Sir?" Reptilicus called with utmost respect. Just because he was a sideshow freak didn't mean he was uncivil. "Sir, do you need help?"

The urbane man didn't answer but instead continued to stare into space.

"You shouldn't be out here right now," the fire breather reproached. "The midway is closed."

Still no response. Reptilicus moved forward, closing the gap between himself and the delinquent man. Sidling close, he saw that the stranger was in shock and vacant like a blank page.

"Sir?"

Finally the man ascribed his presence. Turning from the heavens to face Reptilicus, he said vaguely, "He fell from the sky and I lost him."

Intrigued and thinking the man was high on lord knows what narcotic, the tattooed man asked, "Who? Who did you lose?"

Gazing back up at the enormity of the welkin blackness, he responded plainly, "My brother."

--------------------

**Author's Note:** Hullo, all. I apologise for the delay in posting this chapter, but as I warned life got hectic (and still is) and yet I kinda needed the break. However, I have a very special way to make it up to you, as forewarned in my LJ. Many of you are aware of my profession and that I encounter several celebrities because of it. That is why as a way of saying thanks for the support, friendship and continued readership to my friends and fans I decided to do something special. During her recent stay in NYC for the Big Apple Con, I was lucky enough to manage to spend a significant amount of time with none other than Hayden Panettiere herself. In all of her sweet awesomeness and amid our chatting up on life, she signed an extra copy of _Entertainment Weekly _that featured her on the cover (which I had stashed away and specifically put aside for this opportunity). If you would like to be the lucky person to take this autographed issue off my hands then here is what you must do:

As I stated in the Author's Note prior to the Prologue, Elle Miasnikov was created by me over the summer before it was public knowledge that a character named Elle would join the actual _Heroes_ ensemble. That means it is safe to say that Elle Miasnikov was never intended to be the cannon Elle (after all, it is _Grace_ who has the power of electricity in _MBK_). However, Elle Miasnikov _will_ have a pivotal and profound impact on what happens to Peter by the end of _MBK_. A clue to what that impact will be can be found in her last name. Your task is to tell me what Elle's surname means and based upon what you discover, theorise on what consequence it will have on Peter. Send your answers and your conspiracy theories to me via private messaging here on FF.N along with a way to contact you back. Your theories are simply to weed out the loyal readers so theories _do not_ have to be correct but they should be creative and relate to the story. However, your answer as to what Elle's last name means _does_ have to be correct (hint: think of the community in which she lives).

All entries must be received by 4PM EST on December 20, 2007. I will read them over during my holiday break, choose the winner from those who answer correctly and announce in my Livejournal (and through the contact email you supply me with) who won on January 4, 2008. The magazine will be wrapped in a protective plastic sheaf and supported so that there won't be any creases. To be fair, there are no international restrictions so readers outside the US _are_ included in this opportunity. For a look at a photo of the magazine, please refer to my Livejournal (link located on my bio page) and do not hesitate to contact me with any questions. Once again, thank you for your readership/friendship and continued support. I wish you all the best of luck!

Lupinus


	7. Issue 7

**Author's Warning:** As mentioned in a similar previous chapter, the story is an overall PG-13 with the exception of an occasional chapter being R-rated. This is another chapter to which that warning applies.

------------------

"The mildest, drowsiest sister has been known to turn tiger if her sibling is in trouble."  
--Clara Ortega

Chapter 7

The late October night was colder than Peter guessed it would be but he attributed it to the tormenting fever still inside him rather than to the season. He sniffled and rubbed his arms for warm friction, wishing he'd taken a jacket with him since the T-shirt he wore was not nearly enough for his thin frame to be warmed by. Wiping the clammy sweat from his brow, he stopped walking to catch his breath, wishing that the fatigue that bothered him would leave. Lugging the goddamned paintings from one borough to the next did not help either; although he was aware that it shouldn't have had this much of an effect on him.

His stomach rumbled and he thought of the dinner Alex was cooking that he was not eating. In retrospect it was likely a bad idea that he left without putting food in his stomach; he desperately needed to regain his lost strength and running about in the cold night air was not going to fix it. He folded and placed the comic book he realized was still in his hand in his back pocket and continued walking.

The neighborhood was dark and relatively silent. In the shadows a dog barked and he shut his eyes against the incapacitating blue headlights of a passing car. The clatter of the subway zooming across the overpass above him made him glance up. Teenagers strolling toward him in a pack forced him move off to the side to allow them passage, his body tense and rigid as they brushed against him. One touched his arm then looked back over his shoulder and for an eternal split second Peter thought the kid could see him despite his current invisibility. But the teen continued up the street with his friends without fuss and Peter sighed relief. Suddenly stepping out for his wanted breath of fresh air did not seem to be such a bright idea after all.

He walked onward, arriving at a busy street when the aroma of freshly baking pizza besieged him like a tempting succubus. He was absolutely_ famished_! Taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, he headed toward the pizzeria, his mouth salivating uncontrollably. Stepping inside the joint, he noticed easily that other than himself, the three men behind the counter making pizzas were the only ones present. He watched ravenously as the oven door was opened to check on the pies inside. One of them, a plain cheese, was slipped out and placed inside a box that was in turn placed on the counter.

"Hey, Dom!" the man who removed the pie addressed to his co-worker who was in the back preparing a pan. "This one's ready! Go on and deliver it, will ya!"

With the speed of a cobra and as much remorse, Peter snatched the box from the counter and dashed out of the pizzeria. He slowed down only when he was a block away and noted then that he was near the Coney Island boardwalk, the rides emerging like gigantic Japanese kaiju in the dark. Was he close to the spot where Elle found him? Considering the state Elle said he was in there was no possibility for him to recall the exact location of where he was found. But the mysteries could wait a while. For now all he wanted to do was settle someplace and eat in peace.

Traipsing out on the sand, he chose a spot to sit down, reaching behind him to remove the comic book from his back pocket before his rear end hit the sand. Hungrily devouring his first slice, he opened the comic and began reading from page one. As he went through pages and slices, he was riveted to the story unfolding before him and found himself unable to put the book down.

The story did indeed rocket five years into the future when, as Elle promised, Sylar took presidency and ordered a mass holocaust of his super-powered kin. By consuming the brains of these special people, the monster stole their powers for himself. Peter's heart dropped into his stomach as the slice he held fell to the sand when he saw that one of the stolen powers happened to be visual manipulation, as the man who was supposed to be Sylar came to resemble Nathan. Horror stricken, Peter fought back the desperate urge to race to the mansion and protect his sibling.

It would've been the right thing to do, regardless of their past brotherly rapport. He was confident that Nathan would've done the same for him despite all the unpleasant memories that randomly disturbed him. _He loves me and I owe him for something! I just know it!_ Frustrated, he tossed the comic away and watched its thin pages turn and rattle in the gusts brought ashore by the tide. He wanted to help but did not know how. He didn't know what was going on and with every passing hour a restless desperation coiled around him without mercy. Living in the dark this way when danger was afoot near him made him anxious. Out there somewhere lurked a great threat enclosing him and his loved ones while each precious minute was being wasted on trying to figure things out. How could he fight an enemy of which he knew nothing? He would die if something happened to Nathan; he felt that fact intertwined within the fabric of his soul.

Rising from the soft, cool sand, he retrieved the comic with a guilty feeling for abusing what was not his property. Returning it back to his pocket, he used the cold waves of ocean to clean the pizza grease from his hands when his eyes happened to make a discovery. Above him at the edge of the boardwalk stood the figure of a man who was staring up into the sky. Intrigued by being in the presence of someone who could not see him, Peter indulged openly in the role of voyeur. The voice of another he could hear but not see reached him then the man he could see spoke but both voices were too low, too drowned out by the crash of the waves for him to understand them clearly. Peter cocked his head and stepped closer, dying to hear just a snippet of the conversation.

Alas, it did not work so Peter backed off. What right did he have to pry? He told Elle that he didn't believe he was the type of person who abused his gifts yet here he was abusing them the first opportunity he got.

_Hypocrite! Leave the man to his thoughts! Stop being so nosey! You wouldn't like it if you were in his place!_

The second speaker stepped into view, however, and regained Peter's interest for as he stepped into the light the young man saw the freakishly tattooed man reach out and take hold of the other man by the sleeve. Coaxing him backwards, the tattooed man began to lead the other man away and Peter stole a quick look at the dazed man's handsome, soiled face. Staggering backward, he wondered if who he was seeing was truly Nathan or was it a fata morgana manifested from simple wishful thinking.

No, it was definitely his brother, his flesh and blood, his hero. Brought to tears by this chance encounter, Peter wiped away those tears that accumulated in his doting eyes with a quick swipe from the back of his hand. Heart swollen with ancestral affection, he stared at Nathan who retained the power of his breeding notwithstanding his untidy appearance. Peter's heart ruptured when he made the transpicuous note that the remnants of Nathan's suit were burnt…burnt like how Elle said his body had been burnt.

_Oh god! What did I _do_ to him? It's my fault! Everything that happened to him is _my_ fault! _All_ of this that's happened is _my_ fault!_

The young nurse was at once down trodden yet excited upon fatefully being allowed to observe his brother so candidly. The spell was broken when the men walked from the edge of the boardwalk and out of sight, leaving Peter to fight the urge to shout Nathan's name at the top of his lungs. Had it not meant unintentionally drawing unwanted attention to himself he would've done just that. Inherent instinct to protect companioned with fear of the unknown prohibited him; a vindictive enemy was out there and the last thing Peter wanted was to unwittingly expose Nathan to it any more than he already was. It wasn't yet time to reunite with his brother, he knew.

But his spirit soared with the glimpse of the estranged life he desired to return to. It meant hope and the chance to start fresh. Could it be that Nathan stood out on the pier watching the skies for his little brother's return? Elle suggested that _Peter_ had in fact been the object which had fallen from the sky rather than the meteor that the officials declared it as. Of course it made no sense why or how he would be in the sky in the first place but that was a fleeting thought in his mind. Nathan staring up into the sky seemed to validate that probability. For all of the bad experiences with Nathan that Peter remembered, the younger Petrelli son was convinced that if big brother was scouring the skies then he was wishing on a star for his baby brother's safe return.

This moment and its implications was an ineffable experience for Peter. He watched for as long as he could until the well-bred politician and the sideshow freak blended into their dark enshrouded background. Reaching out towards his brother, Peter softly called out to him but it was pointless. Nathan did not have the ability of enhanced hearing and his cry went unheard.

Overwrought with emotion, Peter turned around to step back only to find himself plunging to the beach below. The wind was knocked from his chest as he landed hard and face first into the sand. Feebly standing and wiping the sand from his delicate face, Peter was mystified at what just happened.

"I _flew_!" he muttered, eyes wide with surprise. "_I flew!_"

Then it should've been no surprise, for the memory he had of disclosing to Nathan that he thought he could fly prognosticated that newfound capability. Elle would be ecstatic to learn that she was correct in her assumption of a flying ability. What _else_ could he do? He felt like a magician and the magician's audience all in one: he continued to astonish himself with the tricks he came up with.

This was what occupied his mind on his journey back to the apartment building. Only by pure homing instinct was he able to find the place on his own because the second guessing he would've done if he paid attention would've certainly gotten him lost.

Exhausted by the time he returned to the Miasnikov apartment, Peter originally meant to permit himself to collapse on the rickety sofa and doze heavily on a belly full of pizza slices. Finding Alex spread akimbo there caught him off guard until he remembered that his gracious host had taken the night off. This also denoted that Elle was asleep in the bedroom and, with a pleasant sort of horror, Peter understood that he was being trusted to sleep beside the girl in her brother's bed.

_Don't fuck it up, Pete! This trust means a lot!_

It felt as if every pore in his body ached with the need for sleep but he refused to slip into bed next to a woman as an unwashed wretch. He ventured into the bathroom to wash up and give his teeth a quick brush with the new toothbrush that Alex bought for him at the market while grocery shopping earlier. Rinsing the toothbrush then his mouth, he cupped his hands together, gathering water that he used to cleanse his face.

When he stood upright he came eye to eye with himself in the mirror and he paused to stare inquisitively at his reflection. How incredibly frustrating to gaze upon a face known to be your own and yet know absolutely nothing about who stared back at you. What godly wrath he incurred to be cursed with amnesia he shuddered to think of. Each passing hour peeled away the layers from the stranger he currently was to unveil the real man beneath. With all that he already discovered, it frightened him. So far he liked who he'd been but he also liked who he was now. Where the line between them was drawn he did not know and hoped that it was thin.

Not wanting to upset himself further, he turned his back to the mirror, wiped off his face with a towel hanging on the rack and entered the bedroom. As expected, Elle was fast asleep nestled snugly beneath the covers and lying on her side facing where he would soon be. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach for a reason that he could not define and he gulped. Should he sleep fully clothed and on top of the blankets? Would it be alright to sleep in his underwear? Hesitantly stripping down to only his borrowed boxer briefs, he unfolded the blanket that awaited him, the same one he used before, and stretched out beside her, covering himself up to the chest and sighing to help relax his worn body.

Without notice, Elle scooted closer and haphazardly flung her arm around him, nearly striking him in the face. Stunned, he allowed her to huddle against his extra warm body. Placing her head upon his chest, she groaned her approved satisfaction. Uncertain as to how to react, he at first froze before deciding to enclose her within the arm she rested upon. She smiled and mumbled something in her sleep that sounded suspiciously like "I love you, Dave."

The words left hollowness in his heart as his thoughts rambled toward Simone Deveaux. How many nights did he spend with Simone in his arms? Would it be morally wrong if he pretended he was holding her now rather than Elle? Just for a while until he fell asleep. Then tomorrow he would feel guilty for doing it but it would offer _some_ needed solace at the moment. It was bad enough that he was greatly upset that he loved a woman whose ex-boyfriend he was obviously embattled in rivalry with for her yet he could not even remember what she looked like. He desperately wanted to remember because if he could recall _one_ small physical aspect of her then perhaps he could truly be comforted a little. He contemplated seeking her out but according to Elle, Simone disappeared a few weeks ago, sinking his heart once again.

Everywhere he turned for answers there was a maddening dead end. All he ever managed to uncover were answers that were too incredible to believe. He just wanted to remember something about Simone, more about his connection with Isaac, anything about his relationships with Nathan and Claire. What he knew always seemed to lean toward the negative: his bitter competition with Isaac, his unrequited worship for Nathan, his cathartic love with Simone. For a reason unknown, he felt as if he must've been a hurting, disgraceful ulcer to his family and everyone else around him. Maybe Elle was right. Maybe it _was_ best that he took advantage of this disappearance and amnesia, kept away from them all and started new elsewhere. But then there was Claire, of whom there didn't seem to be anything negative surfacing for. Was she his sole missing link to happiness?

As he let himself ebb into sleep he decided to make his thoughts safe and switched from Simone to Claire. It was then when he finally was able to achieve some desired peace.

------------------

Reptilicus and his girlfriend Miranda, a stripper who performed at Coney Island's Friday night burlesque show, scrutinized the strange guest who had been taken into the small living space which they called home at the back of Reptilicus' performance area. They offered the outsider a cup of tea or coffee but he didn't respond and instead continued to blankly stare at the room in front of him.

"Who is he?" Miranda whispered.

"I have no idea," Reptilicus answered. "I was taking my normal walk through the midway and there he was, just staring off into the night sky like he was waiting for something."

"Is he just going to continue staring like that? He's giving me the creeps."

"What do you want me to do, Randi? I can't leave him out there. He'd get his ass kicked wandering around in a stupor like that."

"We should call the police. Maybe he was already attacked and that's why he's acting this way."

"Could be. He said he lost his brother. Said he fell from the sky."

"Fell from the sky? And you didn't find that odd? Sounds like drugs to me. _Looks_ like drugs to me."

"This doesn't look like any drug induced reaction that I've ever seen. It looks more like shock from some kind of trauma."

"But _what_ kind of trauma?"

"Don't know. Loss of his brother. Maybe his brother died and he hasn't come to terms with it yet. Maybe there was a recent car accident. He looks like he's come from a fire or something. Which reminds me. Go get him something else to wear from my dresser."

Miranda flashed him a dubious look but Reptilicus' eyes wouldn't separate from their visitor.

"Do it, Randi," he insisted. "He can't sit here in these rags."

Reluctantly the dancer went to do what was asked of her and, seizing the opportunity, the fire breather verged closer to their guest.

"Hey, man" he softly called. "What's your name? What happened to you?"

There was still a zero response.

"Were you in an accident? A fire? You look like you've crawled out of a fire and that is definitely something I know about."

Still null.

Trying another approach, he asked, "What happened to your brother? Can you tell me so I can figure out how to help you?"

Not looking at his host, the man repeated his words from earlier: "I lost my brother."

"I know. You told me that already. _How_ did you lose your brother?"

"He fell from the sky. I can't find him."

Reptilicus sighed deeply.

"And they call _me_ a freak," he muttered underneath his breath.

Randi returned with the clothes which she dispassionately dropped down on an empty chair.

"Find out anything?" she inquired.

"He lost his brother."

"We already knew that."

"I know. But that's all I can get outta him." They paused. "Something really fucked up happened to him. We gotta take him to the police. A serious crime might've been committed here. Plus there might be a missing persons report for him or something."

"Good idea. And do it as fast as possible. He freaks me the fuck out. If he's saying he lost his brother then maybe he _killed_ his brother. Ever think of _that_?"

"We'll let him stay out here on the couch for the night and take him to the police in the morning."

"You can't take him _now_?"

"I don't think he killed anybody. Doesn't look like he has blood on him except for his own from minor cuts and burns. That's why I think he might've gotten into an accident."

Randi raised her hands defensively and stated, "I trust you. You've got better instincts about people than I do. But we are locking our bedroom door tonight."

Ending with that assertion, she promenaded back into the bedroom with the sexy saunter that was the definitive trait for a dancer.

Reptilicus sighed, left alone with the man still staring at ghosts drifting solely before his eyes.

"Can you at least remember your own name?" he demanded gently. "Give me _some_ kind of hint."

It was futile. The man remained indifferent as the sideshow worker expected.

"Well, here are some clean clothes so you can get dressed and sleep out here on the couch. I'll give you a blanket. Tomorrow first thing I'll take you in to the police station or the hospital, whichever you prefer, and they can figure out who you are. Does that sound good?"

When he received no acknowledgement he reclaimed a blanket from the small closet in the room and offered it to the comatose man who merely peered at it as if it was the first time he saw a blanket in his life. Giving up, Reptilicus left it folded over the sofa and began walking into the next room, muttering a good night in his wake. Once he reached a safe distance up the dark hallway, he turned back around to enquiringly watch the deadpan stranger.

The man kept as still as a statue.

------------------

_Isaac, I need your help._

_You need help? Ask Simone. You already took her. What else do you want from me?_

_You painted me. A picture of me flying. OK, it happened. It was real. I flew._

_Congratulations._

_I'm telling you that I believe you. That you can paint the future. So, whatever is happening to you it's happening to me too._

Peter sat up like a bolt in bed, opening his unseeing eyes which were once again covered entirely by the white cataracts of prescience. His hands searched the nightstand beside the bed, his groping fingers finding what they desired: a pad of paper and a pen. Furiously he began to sketch.

------------------

Dawn was breaking and Amber Romerovski was too tired to stand by the time she'd gotten off the subway. Returning home to Sheepshead Bay was not an easy task to accomplish when you've been out clubbing all night until the bouncers kicked you out at closing. It was a losing battle to remain awake and she knew of at least one time she in fact had fallen asleep, wakened only by a particularly rough bump on the tracks.

She nearly tripped over her own back pack after she left the train and took the steps down to the street as quickly as she could manage without a repeat of the fiasco. She was thankful that her walk from the station stop wouldn't be that long. Just ten minutes.

Ten minutes.

But ten minutes seemed eternal when your feet hurt and your legs felt as if they would collapse with every step taken.

_Ten minutes, Amber, you've done this before! If you did it then you can do it now!_

It was minute comfort but it needed to suffice and carry her toward her destination.

_Another nine minutes, Amber, and you can collapse on your nice, warm bed! Just peel off these goddamned shoes and don't even bother to shower! That can wait until you wake up later!_

She thought she saw something out the corner of her eye that looked suspiciously like lightning but by the time she turned her head in that direction it was gone, leaving behind the lingering scent of ozone. Just like lightning. But how the hell _could_ it be lightning? There wasn't a single cloud in the lessening night sky.

Yawning, she continued on without a second thought.

_Eight more minutes, Amber! Hang in there! You're doing good, girl!_

Amber's brain began to grow as numb as her legs were and she stumbled, forgetting to drive herself onward with inspirational thoughts. She knew she was going to make it. She always did in the past. It was a cinch. She'd done it countless times before. This time was _no_ different. She would make it.

Seven minutes later she dropped her keys as she tried to unlock the front door to the two-family house where her apartment was. Stumbling inside, she carelessly tried to swing the door closed behind her.

Before the door managed to shut on its own, a hand shot out and held it ajar.

------------------

The cataracts vanished from Peter's eyes and the young man swooned drunkenly from being off equilibrium. Dumbfounded that he was sitting up with pen and paper in his hand when his last known memory was of falling asleep, he noticed the pen was again being held left-handedly. Terror gripped him; the only time he held anything left-handly was when his precognitive abilities were accessed. While staring at the drawing on the paper, he immediately understood what had involuntarily transpired. Squinting in the dim light to try to figure out what the picture was of, all he could decipher were two characters that were human but nothing more. Excited, he violently shook Elle by the shoulder, calling her hysterically.

Elle woke in a dour mood, shoving his hand off of her as she griped, "Goddamn you, Dave! What the hell is it now?!"

"I drew something!"

"That's nice! Good night!"

"_No_, Elle! I _drew_ something!"

Flustered, Elle rolled over. Then it struck her with a delayed reaction.

"You _drew_ something!" she commented, sitting up next to him. Snatching the paper out of his grasp, she demanded, "Let me see!"

She stared at it for a few seconds, unable to see it clearly until he drew back the curtains so that light was shed across the paper.

"It's somebody being electrocuted," he pointed out. "Tortured."

"By Grace Moriarty. Or at least it _looks_ like her again."

"She must be someone like me. Someone special."

"Or maybe you just have the hots for her."

"I don't think so. This is the second time I drew her surrounded by electricity. I think she can produce it or at least control it."

"Great. Just what we need. An electrified Hollywood superdiva."

Elle unexpectedly clawed Peter's forearm, causing him pain that was ignored for more pressing matters as it healed.

"Oh my god!" she gasped. "That's _my_ _apartment_!"

"_Your_ apartment? Are you sure? How do you know?"

"I know my own apartment when I see it, Dave! Look! That vase!" She pointed to a floral contraption in the background on a bureau top. "It's hideous. My mom gave it to me as a housewarming gift."

"If that's your apartment then Grace is torturing…"

"Amber!"

------------------

"Good morning, sleepy head," the sultry female voice purred behind Amber.

The girl whirled around with a frightened gasp.

"Hi," she returned with a disoriented look, squinting in the harshened morning light. "Who the hell are you?"

"Misery."

Amber wasn't as thick as Elle passed her off as being. Adrenaline shot through the young woman's body as she turned on her no longer tired heels and retreated. But she wasn't fast enough to outrun lightning. Grace smirked and charges of electricity forked over her entire body as she raised her hand and, with all the fury of a Yankees' pitcher, heaved a palm full of electricity at the girl. It struck Amber across the back, setting her a burning, melting hole into the back of the girl's leather jacket as she dropped her cataleptic dead weight to the floor.

"_Some_ challenge _would've_ been nice," Grace said with the undertone of boredom.

She took her time, toying with her prey despite the fact that the girl with the ridiculous pink hair was out cold. It was an enjoyable game for her. Make the bitch suffer. She would just be one of many cut down in her quest to avenge her cherished Gabriel.

Dragging the punk girl by the arm, she towed her to the kitchen and released her. She rummaged around the cabinets for anything to bind the girl with and, finding a staple roll of grey duct tape, deemed it worthy enough to perform the task, and set to work securing her captive to a chair.

"This is going to hurt _just_ _a_ _little_," the movie star muttered.

Electricity fluttering over her fingers and into her palm, Grace placed her electrified hand over Amber's heart, shocking her back to awareness with an excruciated shriek. Grace sadistically waited a few seconds longer than she needed to before withdrawing.

"Now that I have your undivided attention," snarled the beauty, "where is Peter Petrelli?"

Amber sputtered and looked at Grace wild-eyed.

"Who?" was all she could muster, warranting another prolonged shock.

"Peter Petrelli. Where is he?"

"I don't know who the fuck you're talking about!"

Another shock, one even longer still, and this time Amber screamed.

------------------

Peter leapt from the bed and scurried for his floor strewn clothing to hastily dress.

"What are you doing?" Elle interrogated, terrified of the inevitable answer.

"Going to your apartment. Where is it?"

She rattled off a litany of directions.

"But you're not going without me!"

"You're staying here, Elle! This is _way_ too dangerous for you!"

"_No!_ I'm _not_ letting you go alone! She'll _kill_ you!"

"_I_ can't die, remember? _You_ can!"

"_No, Peter, _don't_ go!_"

Now fully dressed, Peter rose from the bed and used his invisibility to exit both the room and the apartment without being hindered or detected.

------------------

"You were on TV talking about your roommate," clarified Grace sternly.

"Elle?"

"Yes. Elle. She's with Peter Petrelli. Where is he?"

"You're a fucking _crazy_ _bitch_ – _Ahhhh!!!_"

The electricity felt like hot needles being shoved into Amber's flesh and she began to perspire heavily. Pissed off at being referred to in a derogatory term, Grace spitefully reinforced the voltage of the current to intensify her torture. Amber howled, her blackened flesh charring and cooking, hair singeing, all of which sent thin tendrils of smoke curling up toward the ceiling.

"Hiding him will accomplish nothing," growled the determined Grace. "Tell me his whereabouts or you will perish."

"I d-on't kn-ow! I don't know wh-where h-he is! I don't know _who_ he is!"

"Where is your roommate?"

"I don't know where she is either!"

"Don't protect them!"

"I'm not, I'm not! _Owwww!_"

Another copious shock, more screaming. The hair on the torture victim's arms ignited into flame but smouldered out when Grace relieved Amber from the electrocution.

"You know who he is!" maintained Grace. "Italian, good looking, on the pretty side, dark hair, slight frame, eyes like a wounded deer stuck in headlights."

"There must be a hundred guys around in this neighborhood alone who look like that!" panted Amber. "It's New York fucking City! Do you know how many ethnic looking people are around here? We're the Great Fucking Melting Pot!"

She wailed louder, harder as the pococurante Grace used her electrocution method to cruelly extract what she wanted from her prisoner, that being the pleasure of the girl's suffering. The rancid stench of cooking human flesh permeated the apartment as Amber was fried alive, the skin blackening and peeling back to expose raw flesh and nerve, the jactitation of her body so violent that her wrists tore through the layers of tape that bound her. This time Grace did not stop.

------------------

If there ever had been a time when Peter wished he could remember how to fly it was definitely now as he raced on foot to Elle's apartment. With no spare time for experimentation with his undiscovered abilities, including his desperately needed and no longer theoretical ability of flight, he wished super speed was included among them. There was no way he was going to make it to the house in time but he needed to _try_. The sudden roar of sirens and foghorn-like sound in the distance indicated that a group of fire engines were approaching.

_Please don't turn left! Please…don't…turn…left!_

Blurs of blazing red paint and flashing lights careened passed him then, to his dismay, turned left.

Peter forced himself to run faster, motivated by a burst of new dread. When he reached the house there was no need to check addresses to know which it was. The correct one was engulfed in flames and a crowd of spectators, other occupants of the two-family house Elle lived in joined with residents of the adjacent homes to cluster around outside as firemen dashed inside for chance of rescue.

Horrified, Peter stood incorporeal and watched, invisible from the eyes of the audience he aligned himself with. They wouldn't have seen him even if he reappeared, so entranced they were with the scene. As with most humans, they could not avert their eyes from tragedy. However, he too was stationary, unable to divert from the calamity unfolding.

The only thing that removed him from the inferno was when he was jostled by someone colliding with him. Whirling around, he saw a distraught Elle on the verge of hysterics. Wrapping an arm around her waist to share his invisibility, he clamped his hand over her mouth and whispered, "It's Peter! Be quiet or they'll hear us!"

But Elle could not contain her revulsion of the sight of her home ablaze. Her home, her belongings, her memories, her friend: everything gone. Incinerated into a pyre of worthless ash. Stifling a sob, she wrapped her arms around Peter and buried her face against his neck.

"I'm sorry," he said in a mollified whisper. "I tried to get here as fast as I could. Sorry I wasn't fast enough."

Elle sniffled then half muttered, half sobbed something so profound yet equally comical that Peter needed to hug her as a reward for her perpetual good nature even when it was unintended: "I wanted to kill her but I didn't want her dead."

He encircled her tightly inside his arms, nuzzled back against her and murmured affectionately, "Come on, silly. Let's go home. There's nothing else we can do here."

He felt pressure as she nodded against him, ignoring the trickle of tears she left in her wake when she pulled back, careful to stay within his arms so the bond of invisibility wouldn't be broken. He guided her away from the scene of billowing black smoke, lost memoirs and probing eyes and back in the direction of Alex's apartment.

He wanted to get her off the public streets and back to someplace where they could talk and grieve in peace. Also he sensed that Grace Moriarty was not the sort of woman who would abscond from a crime scene she fashioned. The woman was a big Hollywood star according to Elle and she would probably want to soak in the limelight of the chaos she propagated, even if it was anonymously. There was no longer any doubt that Grace Moriarty was announcing her enmity to him. The last thing he wanted was to be caught unprepared by a lunatic with a sadist's focus, not when he couldn't understand her motive behind why she was targeting either him or Elle in the first place.

They took their time in returning to the apartment, walking leisurely under the cloak of his invisibility gift. All the way back Elle clung to his body as if he was rescuing her from eminent death. Since Grace had tortured and murdered Elle's roommate and subsequently burnt down their house, he just _may have_ saved the pretty fangirl's life.

He lifted the invisibility only after they inconspicuously slipped back inside Alex's apartment but by then Elle was in such a state of shock that he needed to usher the dolorous girl back to bedroom and help her sit on the bed. Inspired by everything that had taken place, he went back out to the living area to repossess the Mendez paintings as well as the one he did and dragged them back into the bedroom, careful not to disturb Alex who was still asleep on the couch. To offer himself and Elle privacy he shut the door behind him.

"Are you OK?" he asked Elle softly.

She blinked several times then replied in a strained voice, "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Do you want a glass of water or something?"

"Uh uh. I'm good. Oh wait. Does Alex have any more vodka left?"

"I think we finished it off before. We meaning _you_."

She smiled at his friendly teasing. It was typical of her to want to celebrate the truncated life of a friend with inebriation.

"Sorry I'm being weird," she amended. "I just can't believe all of this has been happening. My roommate was killed by an electrified movie star."

"I'm afraid so."

"How can she be like that and be famous? Wouldn't the paparazzi know that she's a human eel?! God, how incompetent _are_ they? They can report to us about Britney Spears going Kojak but they can't let us know one of the most important things in Tinseltown?!"

"I'm sure this is a different situation, Elle. She must've learned to hide it very well."

"Fucking _bitch_!" she shouted, then covered her mouth with a quaking hand in regret that she freely yelled when Alex sleeping just outside the door. "I want to get her back for this."

"So you _did_ like Amber."

"We'd known each other since we were little kids," she owned up. "Since we were eight years old. Yeah, we had our differences but she was still my friend."

She gazed teary-eyed at Peter who wiped the tears from her face with his thumb.

"It's _my_ fault," he muttered, plagued again with culpability. "I failed. I should've gotten there sooner. I'm living in this surreal, incredible world where nothing makes any sense. I have all of these superpowers, these capabilities, and I couldn't reach her in time. What good are my abilities if I couldn't help her? I could've saved her but I was too late."

There was a substantial pause between them as their temperaments reversed with Peter increasingly growing upset while Elle gathered her wits and proffered succor to Peter. Everything was visibly taking its toll on him. The fallen hero bowed his head in shame and silently allowed his tears to fall without humiliation for doing so. The sight was enough to stir Elle's heart and she drew him into her arms. He rested his head upon her shoulder, his face buried against her neck.

"I'm sorry I'm a failure," he sobbed. "I'm _so_ _sorry_."

"It's _not_ your fault, Peter," she lightly whispered against his forehead, smoothing back his hair as she joined him in tears. "Don't blame yourself. You're _not_ a failure. You're still only human even though you can stop things with your mind."

Sniffling, he pulled free of her arms and looked at her with dewy eyes, smiling weakly. She returned the smile warmly. Wiping his tears with the back of his hand, he unpredictably leaned over as if to kiss her but paused when he got too near. An awkward moment of hesitation hovered between them before Elle closed the gap, pressing her lips softly against his. Thinking twice, he abstained but smiled sweetly when she didn't, as if she awaited him to return.

In this he did not disappoint. Capturing her mouth again, he kissed her with newfound assertiveness. The moment of indecision at once transformed into a mutual passionate aggression, the signature of desperation for comfort. Her hands were cool silk against his hot bare chest underneath the shirt she was divesting his body of. He leaned back and let her zealously devour his flesh, his hands roaming her body with impatient caresses, slipping beneath the T-shirt she wore to mimic her actions. When his hand slipped into her bra, another round of second thoughts interrupted his advancement.

"Don't stop," she whispered urgently. "I _want_ this. _You_ _need_ this."

She kissed him firmly on the mouth, coaxing him with her tongue to return her affection. Being an empirical witness of death and destruction at the hands of someone out to cause them harm brought the normally timid man out of his shell. Life was too short, he reasoned, as he progressively cupped her small breast and reached around to unhook her bra. He struggled with it single-handedly until the frustrated Elle stopped to remove it herself. Leaning up to suckle a tender spot of her neck, he helped her shed the rest of her clothing like an unwanted skin. Each feathery brush of her finger tips across his flesh ignited desirous heat within him, impairing his self-discipline to the degree that he trembled just to retain a gentlemanly composure. He groaned as she slid his borrowed jeans down then lowered herself to hungrily engulf his hardness inside her mouth.

_Should I be _doing_ this?_ he questioned. _I _need_ her, I need _someone_ right now! Everything else in my life is so uncertain! She's all I have! Then is it _wrong_ for me to let this happen?_

These worries caused him to shift away from her, calling her name in voice that mirrored both his friendly concerns and his manly wants. Despite his power to do so, Elle seemed to be the one who read _his_ mind.

"Don't think," she dispelled his doubts, lying back and pulling him down atop her. "Just react."

Her advice made logical sense to him so he leaned down for another kiss while she embraced him in welcome, pressing his body down against hers. Accepting her compassion, he coupled his body with hers, she arching up to meet him as he buried himself within her completely, both physically and emotionally. But he briefly kept still as perhaps it was this intimate connection which suddenly opened the avenues of streaming thought he heard Elle say without her uttering of a single word.

_Can't believe this is finally happening! What took him so long? He's soooo _hot_! Feels good too! He's hard in all the _right_ places! Such a shame! Oh, god, he's amazing! Could keep him forever!_

Her thinking became hysterical and cluttered and he dizzied from the mental eavesdropping. The thoughts came in such forceful litany that he was unable to stave off the sound and keep it away. Cupping her face in his hand, he did the only thing he knew would help and wantonly kissed her. It worked like a charm as she stopped thinking.

"Don't think," he repeated to her softly, "just react."

Passing him a bewildered expression, she touched his face and they kissed again as he began to move inside her with all the care of someone not wanting to crush a fragile flower beneath his weight. She sighed as he found a good rhythm for them both and set to pleasuring her. Not certain how experienced he was or if he was experienced at all, he realized that in this state of amnesia he was like a virgin again. Earlier Elle became envious of his relationship with Simone Deveaux but in truth he didn't know if he'd actually had sex with Simone. He was aware of a rivalry with Isaac Mendez for the woman's affections but nothing more. Whether or not they'd consummated their affair was still unknown. Perhaps his love had been unreturned. He guessed that at his age he was a virgin no longer but he liked the idea of having an odd sort of purity to bring to Elle. The beauty of sex was that it required no memory of identity or history. Sex was raw instinct, biology guided by nature to take its course. He was aware that his anatomy was meant to fuse with hers and the functions thereafter were performed from that raw instinct which was enough to get him by.

However, the disappointing part was that he could only do what he _imagined_ she would get pleasure from rather than performing acts he _knew_ she enjoyed, continually engaged in kissing her as a distraction in case he wasn't any good. Her fingers toyed with his hair, stroked his back, and clutched his hips to guide him in the manner that pleased her most. She wasn't shy in instructing him, telling him which spot and how fast or how deep. For this he was indebted because whatever he knew prior meant nothing. Servicing a woman well enough to furnish her with pleasure was _not_ pure instinctual function. That demanded skill and if he would live to regret this tryst later then the one thing Peter wanted to take from it was that he was able to gratify her.

Her legs quivered uncontrollably in a weakened state around his waist so to help her with supportive comfort he hooked them by the knees with his elbows, making his thrusts into her smoother and deeper. Soon after he felt her body tense and he intrinsically knew that she was about to climax. Plunging harder and faster, he brought her to an orgasm that set her into a shrieking, back scratching fit of ecstasy. Worried that her noise would rouse the interest of her sleeping brother, he stifled her cry with an impassioned kiss. After the crescendo of her orgasm lessened she approvingly smiled at him and he returned it with one that brimmed with affection.

"Don't stop," she panted.

"Don't intend to," he promised.

And he didn't. The feel of her squeezing contractions around him made him moan with bliss and it took great effort to continue preventing himself from reaching his own climax shortly after hers was reached. Her body was exquisite as it tightened around him, becoming slicker from her arousal, making it increasingly difficult for him to hold back. Here was where he wanted to stay for as long as he could: submerged deep inside her body, mind and soul, becoming a part of her in a beautifully intimate way.

Creating soft love sounds in her throat, she bit into his neck, sucking the flesh there lovingly. He let her because it would heal any way, just as the profound wells she put in his back with her fingernails mended seconds after she created them. He moaned as she traced the tendon in his neck with her tongue, stopping to suck at his pulse, her breath heavy against him. Reaching between them, his fingers searched for a spot he knew must exist and when she writhed in aroused excitement underneath him he knew it definitely did, proving he had _some_ level of experience. Rubbing the nub of flesh while he steadily continued to thrust, he managed to give her a second orgasm which in turn caused her slickened body to clasp around him impossibly tighter.

"Fuck, Elle!" he muttered, placing his forehead against hers as he worked harder yet still gently.

She kissed him, he obliging and when he slipped his tongue into her mouth she playfully sucked on it. Losing himself in the act, his restraint crumbled and he pressed into her as deep as possible then spilled himself with a satisfied moan, his heart racing and body trembling.

"Are you OK?" he inquired sweetly, his eyes large and emanating poignant sentiment.

"I couldn't be more right," she declared, stroking one of his finely cut high cheekbones.

Kissing her leisurely a few more times, he separated from her, taking his place at her side. Longing to still be a part of her, he nestled closer and requested, "Please hold me for a while."

Accepting him into her arms, she pressed him firmly against her.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Not just for the sex but for everything."

"You're welcome, Dave."

Fulfilled and sated, they wrapped around each other and fell back asleep.

------------------

By the time Reptilicus and Randi woke up that morning, their recondite guest had already been awake for an hour and a half. Restive during the entire night, he stood at the window staring out at the Coney Island workers preparing for the anticipated busy day and a periodic jogger, waiting to quiz the man who'd took him in the night before.

It felt as if an eternity passed before his bizarre hosts roused from their slumber; he would've already been long gone without notice had he not wanted to ask them a few things before departing.

Just when he was about to give up and leave any way he heard a scuffle behind him accompanied by a half-yawned, half-muttered "Good morning" behind him. He turned and found Randi, as unglamorous as a burlesque dancer could be bundled up in a robe and wearing a pair of glasses as she prepared to make coffee in the little coffee maker on the counter.

"Want some caffeine?" she offered.

"Yes, please," he responded which visibly surprised her.

"You _spoke_!" she acknowledged. "Wait here for a minute."

Hurriedly she retreated to the rear of the living quarters, presumably to get her boyfriend or husband or whatever the hell he was to her. Seconds later, both of the midway freaks appeared.

"Hey," Reptilicus addressed. "How are you? Did you sleep well? Do you remember anything?"

He sighed and nodded.

"I remember _everything_."

"You do? What happened to you, man? What's your name?"

"You honestly don't know?"

"Don't know what?"

"Who I am?"

The fire breather shrugged. "I guess not. Should I?"

"Does the name Nathan Petrelli sound familiar?"

"Yeah, it does," added Randi, interrupting the coffee making she had gone back to. "Newly elected Congressman. You're him?"

"You know my name but not my face?"

"I don't follow politics. In case you haven't noticed, we're in our own world down here. But I've heard your name in passing."

"You keep saying that you lost your brother," Reptilicus recurred. "What exactly did you mean by that?"

There was no way Nathan planned to reveal the truth to these people or to anyone else for that matter. He owed them for taking him in but there was limited truth he could tell and being a politician made him a practiced liar.

"There was an accident," he fibbed with a stony, straight face. "We were drinking on the beach to celebrate."

"How exemplary of you," Randi quipped smartly.

Nathan gave her a warning look before continuing.

"He had a little more to drink than he could handle and unwisely decided to go for a swim. I tried to stop him but I wasn't exactly in the best of conditions myself. He got swept away by the tide."

"Oh my god!" Randi exclaimed, handing Nathan a mug of freshly made coffee. "Are you _serious_?!"

"Fuck," Reptilicus swore. "Did you call somebody? The coast guard or…"

"No. I wasn't in good shape, granted, but I tried looking for him myself. Couldn't find him. By the time I sobered up too much time elapsed."

"You _have_ to tell somebody, man. Not telling the authorities could've definitely cost him his life. They might've been able to rescue him. It's been a long time for somebody to be lost out in the water now. His chances aren't good at all."

"No. I suppose they aren't."

"You should call right away. Every minute counts."

Nathan despondently shook his head.

"I don't think it matters any more."

"Of course it matters! It matters because he's your brother! He's your _brother_, man!"

"I appreciate your concern and all that you've done for me, I honestly do. However, we Petrellis take care of our own business. I'm sure other members of our family are looking for him. For us both, actually."

Randi and Reptilicus couldn't believe what they were hearing. One minute this man was compassionate for his brother, the next callous. Only a politician possessed the ability to shock a pair of sideshow performers who earned their living by shocking others. That was the way of the politician and perhaps Nathan had been involved in it long enough to lose most of his conscience after all.

"I just need to get home to make a few calls," he insisted. "Do either of you have a car?"

"I do," Randi stated.

"Can either one of you drive me home?"

The freakish pair gaped at each other in wonder.

"I'll drive you back," Reptilicus offered. "Randi should get more beauty sleep."

Nathan nodded and genially thanked them, knowing fully well that the real reason Reptilicus proposed to drive was because he didn't want the woman to be alone with who appeared to be a homicidal Congressman.

"Then let's go," suggested Nathan before finishing his coffee.

While the men left the apartment and walked out to the car, Nathan dreaded the unwelcome reception he expected to receive once he arrived at the Petrelli mansion.

------------------

**Author's Note:** Seasons Greetings, one and all, and thanks for your continued readership. I just wanted to drop a quick A/N to let you know that I am preparing to undergo a surgery in the near future (hopefully in early January at the latest – it depends on my surgeon's availability) which could delay in the next chapter of _MBK_. However, I will continue checking my emails and will keep in touch with you that way should I be unable to post the next chapter before the surgery. I expect that you will get at least one more chapter before then but I wanted to announce it in case I couldn't manage. This surgery will not affect the contest for autographed magazine in any way so do not worry about _that_ particular issue. As for this chapter, I'd like to dedicate it to my niece Emily (who we nearly lost in surgery last week) and my newest infant niece Jennifer (born the same day we almost lost Emily – how frightening is that?) Life is simultaneously grand and terrifying, isn't it?

**Update:** It's been drawn to my attention that only members of FF.N can send me emails and private messages from my bio page, which I was not aware of. If anyone is interested in Hayden's autographed magazine please email your answer to my question along with your theory to me at infectedwithlupinus at yahoo dot com. Because of this error, I will extend the deadline for another month until January 20, 2008. My apologies for any frustrated/upset readers.


	8. Issue 8

--------------

"Our siblings push buttons that cast us in roles we felt sure we had let go of long ago - the baby, the peacekeeper, the caretaker, the avoider... It doesn't seem to matter how much time has elapsed or how far we've traveled."  
--Jane Mersky Leder

Chapter 8

Ever since Peter turned the Manhattan skies into a nuclear holocaust Claire had trouble sleeping. Irritated at the affect of the insomnia on her eyes she at first attempted to force herself asleep. When all she managed to accomplish was toss and turn she got up to order breakfast, showering and dressing while she waited. Oatmeal mixed with raspberries and blueberries and a swirl of brown sugar. It was the best thing she'd ever tasted outside of her mom's waffles.

Sitting at the small circular table, she tucked her legs beneath her in Indian style and flipped through the channels on the TV, boredom marring her natural attractiveness. There wasn't even a decent channel let alone anything worth watching. Since her dad was lucky enough to still be asleep she kept the volume at a minimum. Settling on _Good Morning America_ she barely paid attention to the program as she toyed with her oatmeal and occasionally popped a spoonful into her mouth.

Her thoughts drifted to what Peter might be doing right now. With a few days now passed she didn't want to admit that she was losing hope at ever finding him. She knew that if missing persons were not found within the first twenty-four hours then it was highly unlikely that they would be found alive. She pictured a dishevelled, destitute Peter roaming the streets wearing an expression of shock on his face. Then terror clutched her heart when she thought of him dead, his life cut short by the head trauma which exclusively was capable of killing him.

_No! I cannot think negatively like that! I refuse to!_

The photograph of Peter that she presented to people on the streets, alongside the Grace Moriarty autographed napkin, had been left on the table top overnight and her eyes dropped winsomely to it. Her want of him was unbearable. For the last month when her world crumbled beneath her feet Peter was the steady ground upon which she stood. They were alike in their difference and the same in blood. He was the only one who understood her yet they barely knew each other.

_All this time I thought it was just me. Now there's you? Is that why you came for me? Is that why you asked me if I was the one?_

_No, I just…I knew I had to save you._

She trusted Peter unconditionally and she wished she could trust her dad in the same way. She understood her dad's motives, she really did, but he proved himself unworthy of her faith by building imbrications of lie upon lie until there was not a scratch of reality in her life. With so much dissonance between them she couldn't confess to him that she was starting to believe that Peter was a lost cause or else they would be on the first flight back to Texas.

"Good morning, Claire-Bear," her dad disrupted her musings out of the blue. "What are you doing up this early?"

She gave a rather weak smile as he sat up and put his glasses on.

"I was a little hungry so I woke up," she fibbed. "I ordered breakfast. I didn't order any for you because I didn't have the heart to wake you and I didn't want yours to get cold."

"That's very thoughtful of you. I can't believe you're still hungry after that humongous cheeseburger you ate last night. The metabolism of youth should be bottled and marketed."

"It's called breakfast because you're supposed to break the overnight fast."

She smiled widely to hint that she was simply being a wiseass and he returned the warm gesture with one of his own.

"What's on the agenda today?" he asked.

"Agenda?"

"Which section of New York do you plan on whisking me off to today in your noble quest to find your uncle?"

The acknowledgement he made of Peter as her uncle touched Claire. It had been a first and it verified that perhaps she underestimated him after all. She gave him a thankful smile.

"Thanks," she appraised softly.

"For what?"

"You've never called him my uncle before."

"I know how important he is to you."

"But you've always ignored the fact of who he really is in relation to me."

Noah looked long at his daughter and Claire waited for a response.

"Watching you on the boardwalk yesterday unremittingly seeking him out made me realize how much he means to you. It's only fitting, I admit. He saved your life. He became a confidant. He genuinely cared about and loved you."

"Please don't talk about him in that way."

"In what way?"

"In the past tense. Like he's dead."

"Claire…"

"He _isn't_ dead, dad, you know he isn't. He can't be."

"I am aware that he absorbed your restorative powers but you also must remember that being able to heal doesn't make you indestructible. You _can_ die. So can Peter."

This topic was not the first thing in the morning Claire wanted to discuss.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Are you forgetting what happened with Brody?"

Claire furrowed her brow. "There was a car accident…"

"Before then. The reason the car accident happened in the first place."

"What are you talking about?"

"The night he tried to rape you. There was an accident and he killed you. You woke up in the morgue during your own autopsy after a large piece of a tree branch was removed from the back of your skull. Does any of that jog your memory?"

She glared at him agape.

"How did you know about that?"

"I'm a parent. It's my job to know more than I let on. Our mutual friend the Haitian cleaned up that small disaster. He needed to work overtime in order to locate the correct people involved; he had to erase the memories of all the detectives and medical staff who were on the case. Then we needed to locate all the files and evidence that was taken on your death and burn everything. It was no easy task but it was certainly necessary."

Ever since the manifestation of her powers and the unveiling of her dad's true occupation, Claire understood that he consorted with others who closely monitored those like her and he had access to information that proved to be the deepest secrets of those people. Perhaps it had been ingenuous of her to believe it but she always hoped that being his daughter granted her the right of privacy. Now the gossamer miasma of denial lifted and she was pissed.

"What _else_ do you know about me that you're conveniently hiding?"

"Don't be upset, Claire. Everything I've ever done was to protect you."

"You know, _dad_, that excuse just doesn't cut it any more."

Rising from the chair, she stormed to the closet to fetch her jacket, slipping it on with irritated trouble.

"Where are you going?" Noah asked.

"Why don't you just have someone _follow_ me?" she returned, her words heated by insolence at how swiftly a good moment turned bad.

"Cooperating by telling me voluntarily would make things a lot easier on everybody."

She stomped to the table to grab the photo of Peter which she stuffed into her purse with renewed endearment.

"I'm going to visit my family," she inveighed between clenched teeth.

Then she was out the door.

--------------

Peter felt the euphoric warmth of a naked body beside him and, smiling, nestled closer against the delicately scented female form, burrowing his face happily into the long hair and the back of the neck of whoever was next to him. At first his mind tricked him into believing it was Simone until he realized that _this_ woman didn't bear Simone's scent, the single thing he could recollect about the missing woman. Opening his eyes he saw who his bed mate truly was and could be fooled no longer. He repelled as if she was acid but Elle stretched and groggily called his name.

"It's kinda cold when you're not against me," she testily complained and he heard the pout in her voice.

"Sorry," he muttered before returning to encircle her in his arms.

Feeling disembodied and as if he were imposing on someone else's territory, he didn't know what to make of this scenario. He loved Elle and was indebted to her and Alex for all they'd done for him. However, he was not _in love with_ Elle and felt he wronged her by sleeping with her and that he caused Alex a great injustice by having sexual intercourse with his sister in his bed. If his place had been reversed with Alex, he would launch a furious defence for hurting his sister. He imagined that in his forgotten life he was as protective of Claire as Alex was of Elle and identifying with the other man's point of view truly bothered him. The couch could've easily been left for Peter last night but it wasn't. Alex elected to sleep on the couch, allowing Peter to sleep comfortably in his bed with his sister, trusting the amnesiac would not partake in the enjoined lusty activities with the younger sibling. This breach would be the coup de grace with the hot tempered Russian-American male.

Then there was Elle. She would no doubt be devastated and accuse him of using her. His selfish temerity would cause her to disown him and cast him back out on the streets, leaving him to fend for himself with limitless possibilities and a psychotic superbitch hot on his tail. The one existing relationship he had that was pure was destroyed in a single moment of weakness. He should've been stronger. Good lord, he didn't even have the decency to use protection!

"Elle?" he broke their silence.

"Hmm?"

"We need to talk."

"No we don't. We need to rest so we can have a repeat performance. You were pretty damned good for a man who couldn't remember his own name."

"That's what I need to talk to you about. I don't think there should be a repeat performance. I don't think there should've been a premiere."

She turned within his arms so she could face him.

"What?" she asked. "Tell me you did _not_ just say that to me."

"I _like_ you, Elle. I _love_ you. But I'm not…"

"_In_ love _with_ me? I know."

"You do?" He was clearly taken aback.

"Yeah. I know you're still in love with that Simone woman. You would have to be. You're too sweet and good not to be. And plus you were moaning her name in your sleep a night ago."

"No I didn't!"

"Dave. Yes, you did." She sat up and peered down at him, forfeiting her jocose personality for a serious one. "Listen, we're both adults even though I don't act like one often. But I only _act_ immature. I know when to be grown and I know this is one of them. I know you and I can never have anything beyond friendship. Fuck buddies like this is fine with me." These words were spoken with a startling absence of malice. "I know you needed the comfort and the sex was consensual. I was glad to make you feel better. If I can't have you as anything deeper then I can be satisfied with being your comforting fuck buddy. I know in the macho world of men everyone sees _you_ taking advantage of _me_ when the truth of the matter is _you're_ the one with a memory loss and _I'm_ really taking advantage of _you_. Besides, _I'm_ not in love _you_ either."

The oddly disappointed appearance etched across Peter's handsome face was priceless.

"You're not?"

"No. I'm still in love with my ex. I needed comfort too."

"I admit, Elle, I don't know what to say. I feel like a jerk in _every_ way now."

"Regardless of how much of a sweetheart you are, Pete, you're still a guy and therefore hardwired to think you're more important than you really are. Women _can_ live without you; I know it's hard for you to believe."

Peter detected a hint of dejected bitterness in Elle's voice but was sympathetic enough to know it wasn't directed toward him.

"I'm sorry, Elle, I didn't mean…"

"Forget it. It's fine. But you _can_ make it up to me."

Her hand caressed up his inner thigh and he intuitively parted them farther for her progressive advance.

"We needed each other," she assured. "You needed consolation. I needed to feel like a woman. We both got what we wanted. Why does it need to be more than what it really was?"

"I just don't want it to ruin our friendship."

"Neither do I."

Shifting in his arms, she wrapped a leg around his waist and Peter shamefully felt himself growing hard again.

"I think," she persevered, reaching down between his legs and firmly massaging him there, "that we should stay in today, forget all of this insanity for a while and enjoy ourselves." She leaned in and pecked him seductively on the lips. "I think it would do us both some good."

Releasing a moan of enjoyment and writhing beneath her touch, he smiled and weakly admitted, "That _would_ be nice for a change."

She smiled as he took the initiative and kissed her back. But her smile waned when he withdrew from her and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, pushing his bangs out of his eyes with a semi-shaky hand. Peter recalled Alex's words before the enraged brother had even set eyes upon him:

"_Did you bring a_ guy _in here? Where is he? In_ _my_ bed _Elle, please tell me you did_ not _have sex with some guy in_ my bed_!"_

"I can't, Elle," he defied. "It's wrong."

"You want to."

"That doesn't make it right. You know it doesn't." He paused, sighing. "We didn't even use protection, Elle. I'm not that kind of guy. I'm not and I refuse to be. I'm more responsible than this."

His eyes fell upon her still bandaged hands and more remorse filled him. Reaching out, he took them gently into his and stroked her wrists with the pads of his thumbs.

"I'm more responsible than _this_ too," he murmured hurtfully.

"Don't worry; I'm not going to wish you into the cornfield or anything. Everything will be fine, I promise."

"You _can't_ promise that. What if you're…pregnant?"

"Let's not think of that right now."

"No, we have to. We _have_ to, Elle, because then we'll have some awfully big decisions to make."

"I will take a test. But I won't worry about it until then."

"If you are you let me know and I will step up to the plate. I will do my very best to be there for you and be supportive. I will not force you to go through it alone."

"You are over thinking a maybe _way_ too much, Peter."

But the young man's sincerity would not be dissuaded.

"I _won't_ abandon you, even if the entire Petrelli family hunts me down to castrate then disown me."

"Do you really think they would go to _that_ extreme?"

"They're lawyers and politicians. They're liable to do _anything_."

Another pause fell between them and Peter could not raise his eyes from her flayed hands. Not until she spoke.

"I saw the painting. The one of Isaac and Simone. You took it from the loft."

He cringed at her words despite the perfunctory tone they carried.

"You think that it'll help you remember something of her. The texture of her skin. The sound of her voice. The color of her eyes. Something. Anything."

A mosaic of likelihoods routed through Peter's mind and he involuntarily shivered.

"Everything is so uncertain for me and it scares me," he explained. "Regardless of how I used to feel about her in my past, I don't know if I feel the same way right now. I'm just clinging to her because she's one of the few things I have left from a missing life." He breathed deeply, almost as if meditating, then continued, "I don't think what _we_ did was a mistake, Elle. I just don't think it was right."

"Same difference."

He turned to confront her.

"No, it isn't. If I thought we made a mistake our conversation would be very different. You were right. We needed each other and I can't condemn you for it. The sex served its purpose and there isn't anything wrong with that. But sex changes everything and it usually isn't for the better. I love you and I respect both you and Alex. For christ's sake, Elle, we _had sex_ _in your brother's bed_. Don't you find that creepy?"

"Not as creepy as if I were having sex _with_ my brother."

The comment confused Peter a little as he at first thought she was referring to the malign statement about him having sex with Claire that she made while looking at the paintings earlier. A minuscule scintilla of the Elle he'd grown familiar with and loved peeked through when she brightly smiled at him. He returned the gesture with a half smile.

Leaning down to the floor he reclaimed the boxer briefs she'd stripped him from before their improper escapade of comfort sex began and slipped into them.

"Where are you going?" Elle asked with a waver in her voice.

He drew the blankets up to cover her exposed breasts then reached up to stroke her face.

"Nowhere," he retorted, scooting back into the now cold place he'd slept in.

"Great," she yawned. "I'm still tired and I wasn't lying when I said it was too cold without you against me."

Peter intended on stretching out atop the blankets but Elle raised them in invitation for him and the room was cold enough for him to want to risk getting back in with her. As she turned her back to him he secured her in his arms. But while she slept he didn't.

--------------

Guilt ridden and depressed over his adulterous betrayal, Archer did the only thing he could do to take his mind off of Grace Moriarty: he worked. Strange indeed it was that the very thing which took the movie star off his mind was the same thing that had brought them together. He tried to sleep but could only manage the blameworthy tossing and turning of his offense. If he moved closer to Rebecca then maybe it would alleviate his wrongdoing and perhaps win him some type of affection from his dozing wife. After all, she was authentically worried about him when she placed her call that night. He nestled against her back, embracing her while dotingly kissing her neck and shoulder. She stirred and he continued, desire swelling his loins. He pressed firmly against her to show his interest but it was an interest she did not share.

"What are you doing?" she sighed sleepily.

"It's been a long time," he muttered in her ear. "I need you right now. Please."

It was humiliating that a husband of twenty-three years needed to beg for affection but his loneliness made him desperate.

"You need me right now?" complained Rebecca. "At three-twenty in the morning?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does if I have to meet up with a client at seven."

Frustrated, he pulled away.

"It never used to matter," he grumbled. "You used to want me once upon a time. Back when time and people never mattered because the only thing that mattered was each other."

"Ryan, it's too late to be nostalgic. We're both older now. Have more responsibilities…"

Archer knew that the conversation was rapidly growing into a heated argument. _At least she has enough energy for something,_ he thought resentfully.

"First and foremost our responsibilities should be for each other," he disputed.

"This is ridiculous…"

"Yes, it _is_ ridiculous, Becca. I shouldn't _have_ to beg to make love. Or for something as small as a kiss. _Any_ sign of affection would due for me. We used to be passionate and unable to keep our hands off each other. Now there's nothing at all."

"Such as the life of career-driven people."

Her unattached indifference disturbed him.

"We agreed not to have children," he averred. "Not to stop being affectionate."

She sighed again, underwhelmed, and rolled over onto her back so that she could glare at him. The detestation he found in her eyes startled him.

"If sex is so important to you," she concluded, "then go find it elsewhere."

At a loss for words and deeply hurt, he rose from the bed quietly and chose to end the argument there before it worsened and extirpated their relationship. Rebecca fell back asleep, at least he believed she did, while he showered, dressed and left the apartment, all without checking her.

First he went to the precinct to catch up on the paperwork. The contradictory nature of the beast at fault for bringing him and Grace together was what he now counted on to obliterate the problems from his mind. He was the only one in the office that early which he liked because he could better concentrate but an hour into his work he found his mind straying, due in part because his eyes ached from lack of sleep. Staring at the Internet icon on his desktop, he contemplated taking a break from his report.

_Hell, she told me to get it from somewhere else._

Clicking on the icon, he waited for Google to pop up and when it did he typed in a search for images of Grace Moriarty. He found a fan site that featured a photo shoot from the year before of Grace in a white bikini and his arousal reawakened at the memory he had of how her skin smelled of raspberries and how her body radiated exquisite warmth that he savoured, how a more specific part of her anatomy was warmer still.

"Detective!" The voice utterly startled Archer which was not an easy accomplishment given his years on the force. "What are you doing here this early? Aren't you due in later?"

Archer looked up to find Ernie the janitor standing in front of his desk. He quickly minimized the incriminating window to conceal his search results from the other man's roving eyes.

"Couldn't sleep," he responded minimally.

"Case keeping you awake?"

"Yeah. You could say that."

It wasn't unusual for a detective to be haunted by a case to the point of overnight obsession.

"Well, don't work too hard," Ernie discouraged. "I'll tell you what I tell all the others. You're only human. You can do only so much."

Archer simply nodded that he understood and agreed.

"I'll go ahead and get some coffee brewing for you, detective."

"Thanks, Ernie, I would greatly appreciate that."

The janitor shuffled away and moments later as he maximized the window to ogle Grace's photos again he could smell the coffee percolating only feet away from his desk. He sent three pictures of Grace to print on the color printer behind him and went to make a cup of coffee.

Three more cups and an hour and a half later he found that he could not concentrate fully on his work. Images of Grace would not stop bothering him and he intermittently drooled at her on the internet. Finally he decided that it would be best for him if he no longer sat idle and gave memories the opportunity to torment him. Hiding the prints of Grace in his desk drawer and locking it, he thanked Ernie for the coffee and headed out to his car, aiming to visit Isaac Mendez's loft. Perhaps there was something he could find there that had been missed.

--------------

Restless and fresh from her electrocution of Amber Romerovski, Grace had no desire to return to the Millennium to sleep. After the fire engines came and the crowds of gawking viewers gathered around to watch the scenario play itself out, she stuck around incognito hoping that the tragic event would draw out Peter Petrelli. His little bitch companion Elle Miasnikov did show up but interestingly enough she somehow blinked out of sight before the celebrity's sunglassed eyes. Was the bitch special too? Grace never believed that she and Gabriel were the only ones in the world with powers, not unless they were extraterrestrials but that would be ridiculous.

Puzzled, Grace strolled through the crowd, trying to blend in, but when she reached the spot where she saw Elle she doubted her own sight. Rather than risk drawing attention to herself she joined the others in watching the house burn, her eyes discreetly roving around for a glimpse of the unseen young blonde. Alas, she'd done a fabulous disappearing act and, like that infernally evasive Petrelli, did not want to be found.

The entire situation was angering her like nothing ever had before. All she wanted was answers about her brother's death and, perhaps, a little vengeful satisfaction; then she could return to Hollywood and resume her normal life. Archer deserted her in the middle of the night at some point without leaving so much as a note explaining why he'd left or thanking her for the night of fanatical sex. He was probably simpering somewhere about his frigid wife which incensed her despite the fact that Grace only used him to get herself off. That meant she'd been the exploited as well as the exploiter and it _really_ pissed her off because nobody used Grace Moriarty. _Nobody_.

Thoughts of such nature were what sent the exasperated, desperate woman calling for car service with the barked demand to be taken to 215 Reed Street, where she knew the deceased painter Isaac Mendez once resided. She wanted answers and if nobody, not even Ryan Archer, was going to give them to her then she would seek them out herself.

Although she remained silent during the cab ride she needed to concentrate hard to block out the insipid club music pouring from the radio at this unusual and ungodly hour. Half way through the ride she got so fed up with the pulsing music that she sent a current twisting over the door she leaned against, passed the driver's door and across the dashboard, shorting out the radio that mercifully went dead amid the hum of static and sizzle of electricity. The perplexed driver cursed then slammed the base of his hand repeatedly against the radio but to no avail. Grace slumped down in the seat and smiled deviously.

When the taxi arrived outside the building she paid the fare and exited as fast as she could, staring up at the top of the building briefly before stepping in. Wrapping the scarf tightly around her neck and adjusting the dark sunglasses over her eyes, she stepped through the door. Top floor, loft seven.

There was no problems caused by passing tenants from other lofts and she strolled onward with head held high. To them she was merely another pretentious tenant or visitor. Then she found the Mendez loft, the door open but the entrance blocked by a web of yellow crime scene tape. Déjà vu. Glancing behind her, she stepped inside, knowing fully well that with the lights on and door open that some police official would be in there too. She decided that when she crossed paths with the cop then she would give him a friendly jolt to knock him unconscious before searching the loft herself. If Archer was right and Gabriel was involved with Mendez, then she wanted to walk the floors that the feet of her beloved brother once touched.

The vile scene of a disturbing murder was not what met her, however, to her shock. Instead the dizzying, overwhelming scent of bleach pierced her nose sharply and sent her into a sneezing fit with watering eyes. Goddamn it!! The cop would beyond doubt come out of wherever he was to investigate the source of the sneezes.

"Grace?"

The voice of her purloined lover was not one she expected to hear.

"Hi, Ryan!" she replied with a sweet smile, trying her best to appear like a naïve child who'd been caught snooping for Christmas gifts in her parents' closet. "What are you doing here?"

"I believe the matter in question is what are _you_ doing here?" returned Archer as he and the beauty met at the center of the doomsday in Manhattan mural on the floor.

"Forgive me, I just couldn't help it. I needed to come here. Discover what Gabriel found so irresistible in the artist. I'm impressed with your work ethic. Ever the pedantic detective seeking out what can be germane answers to a complex case. I find that immensely attractive." She leered at him predatorily, satisfied when she actually made him fidget. Showing atypical mercy, she asked, "What happened to the grisly death scene?"

"Forensics was finished gathering evidence so the clean up crew came in. Routine procedure."

"Then why are _you_ here?"

Archer shrugged.

"Thinking. Couldn't sleep so I needed to work."

A long, awkward and brutal pause settled between them. Grace's eyes trained on the handsome detective who squirmed uncharacteristically beneath her acute gaze. The diva knew that it took a great deal to make a man like Archer react in such a manner and the strength of her intense allure made her proud.

"Look…Grace…I didn't mean to leave like that."

"Umm hmmm."

"It was the first time I've ever been with another woman other than Rebecca since I married her and it was the first time for me in a long time…"

"I know."

She reached out to give his face a soft but condescending stroke, similar to how someone who didn't like animals would pet a cat.

"I didn't know proper conduct, I suppose," Archer soldiered on, grudgingly leaning into her touch.

"That's fine. You can make it up to me."

Grace leaned closer and pressed her lips firmly against his. He stiffened and tried to pull away but she held him in place, coaxing him into a series of heated kisses. She was pleased with herself; Archer was forgetting that bitch of an ingrate wife again in favour of tending to a real woman's needs.

"I can't," Archer muttered against her mouth but she ignored him.

"You _can_," she insisted. "You want to and you _will_."

For all of his objection Archer's resistance was weak as he engaged in a second sequence of kisses with the seductive star, inflating her ego to larger levels. Just when she felt as if she'd triumphed over the love-starved man's hang-ups for a second time the sound of a cell phone on vibrate interrupted. She felt the sensation against her thigh as she tried to force him to continue but Archer pulled away, grateful for the pretext.

"Excuse me, Grace," he requested, reaching into his pocket for the phone.

Annoyed by the disturbance, Grace stepped back to give him room, disappointed that he would shove her aside so willingly. She was nonpareil, particularly with a frigid bitch like Rebecca Archer.

"Rebecca!" she heard him murmur under his breath. Then louder when he answered the call, "Hi, Becca. Is something wrong?"

Grace glowered at the floor, trying to do her best to eavesdrop with discretion yet act like she didn't care.

"Yes, I'm working. I'll be home when—" His callous tone turned into a sweetened one as he continued, "Alright, I'll be home in an hour or two. We'll discuss things then. I promise. We'll work things out no matter what the cost." Passing a quick glance at Grace, he barely whispered into the phone, "I love you too."

Then the call was ended and Grace peered up to meet his regret with aloofness.

"That was my wife," he needlessly informed. "Becca."

Grace delivered an oleaginous nod, choosing to not dignify the detective with words.

"I know you realize I want this with you," he continued, "and I do. But I can't keep this up. I love Becca and I must honor my marriage vows. She doesn't cheat on me, I know it in my heart she doesn't. She's just busy. So am I. We chose to be career oriented and we got too caught up in ourselves to remember our commitment to take care of each other."

"Your wife is neglectful toward you to the point of abuse," she recognized. "If you work things out then things will be fine…for a while. She will eventually fall back into her familiar pattern of neglecting your needs and I will be long gone back on the west coast having any man I want. By then, where will _you_ be, detective?"

A stunned Archer was at a loss for words. Offended by his new strength, the impertinent actress simply turned on her heels and left the loft. Once in the hallway, she noted a man standing but a few feet away from the still open entrance to the Mendez loft. The man smiled at her but she gave him a confused then supercilious glare before stalking to the elevator, believing the flash of light to be merely a reflection of something caught by the sunlight outside the large windows.

--------------

The door to the dark room on the top floor of Petrelli Mansion creaked open and Angela reached in to snap on the light, filling the bedroom with more than the false light of a bulb. Immaculate and neat, it was crammed with medical school text books, diagrams tacked on the wall and disgusting plastic models of human innards that decorated the room…Peter's room…and it was a wonder that the sweet dear could sleep in it without nightmares from all the horrible things he surrounded himself with. Sitting on the bed, her mind revisited her son's memory.

On a daily basis she came to this room before anyone else cracked open their eyes against the glow of morning and reflected on her precious baby boy. The room hadn't been slept in since Peter decided to declare his independence and move out of the mansion but Angela agreed to forfeit the space for storage of his old school supplies as his Lower East Side apartment was too restrictive in size for everything. It made her proud to walk in and see everything Peter had accomplished on his own; everyone considered Nathan the strong one but he took full advantage of the family's prestigious name and, in a sense, rode the coattails of his father. But Angela knew that her quixotic youngest was the real strong one as he took the risk of becoming a family pariah and made his own way in the world.

Beautiful Peter with his beautiful soul. There were many ghosts lurking in this room, ghosts that turned to demons when she remembered that Peter was dead. The holidays were soon approaching and her sweet baby wouldn't be there. Company would be scarce this year with Nathan missing in action as well. There was Heidi and the grandsons but it was never going to be the same with both of her own children gone. Peter always cheered her up, vaporized the bad deliquesce with a mere smile which was not an easy feat in the Petrelli household. That was part of what made Peter stand out, what made him exceptional long before he discovered his repressed special abilities.

In the quiet of the house, she swore she heard the sudden sound of a door being opened then closed with the stealth of someone who didn't want to wake its other sleeping occupants. This roused her interest as it sounded like it came from the ground level. It could've been the servants but she heard a voice that vaguely resembled…

_Can it be? It can't be! It's too good to be true!_

Rising from the bed, she gathered her wits, fixed her hair in the bureau mirror then exited the room, anxiously snapping off the light and carefully shutting the door behind her. Descending the stairs, she checked the hallway of each of the three floors as she passed to make sure it wasn't Heidi or the boys. All seemed clear, meaning it _was_ someone from the outside who'd entered her home.

_Please, dear god, please let it be him!_

Nearly stumbling in her heels, she couldn't get downstairs fast enough, eager to see the face of her beloved son again. When she reached the ground level, her hopes soared then crumbled when she entered the parlour and saw that the one who stood before her was not Peter.

"Hello, mother," Nathan greeted in a voice that deflected the power he usually carried. It was casual, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired days ago and he was returning from a business trip abroad.

Similarly, Angela's deflated aplomb was equally evident.

"Where is your brother?" she asked succinctly. "Where is Peter?"

Nathan's face dropped at the greeting he was received with. He didn't expect her to be thrilled to see him but he did not expect such dismissive coldness directed at him either. He thought she would show _some_ warmth and happiness at seeing her elder son and taking comfort in knowing that at least one of the sibling pair survived. Then he remembered who his mother was and believed himself ridiculous.

"He's gone," Nathan countered just as brusquely, pouring himself a glass of bourbon.

"You let him die?" accused the matriarch.

"I didn't _let_ him die. I didn't have a choice. Believe me, I tried my best to protect him, to help him so he didn't have to live with the lifetime of guilt _you_ were so dead set on forcing him to deal with."

Angela's dignified poise melted away.

"How dare you speak to me with an insolent tone?" she snarled.

"After what you've done to this family, I feel as if I can speak to you in any way I like, mother. Do you honestly believe that I think you're in _mourning_ for him?"

He spat the reference to her in a bitter, acerbic utterance that made her cringe and he was pleased at himself for it. Clenching her jaw, Angela strode over to her older son and issued a sharp slap to the side of his face. Unfazed, Nathan swallowed the bourbon in a single gulp then poured himself another.

"You killed your brother!" she berated. "You killed him because you're a failure! And to think I put all of my trust and faith in you and look what you did! All you had to do was follow through on a few simple instructions and things would've been fine! Your brother would still be alive! But you didn't do what you were told and he is gone forever!"

Nathan chose to remain unresponsive, swallowing the second serving of alcohol before pouring himself another, larger portion. He did his best to pay no heed to Angela's seething, scathing gaze as she parsed the casual, unkempt form. He was a far cry from the distinguished representation of the Petrelli clan that he always had been, stuck in the worn and ill-fitting clothes of a Coney Island modern primitive. But he didn't care. He did not aim to please her any more. There were far more important things on his mind; his mother was right. In a sense he _did_ let Peter die. He just didn't want to own up to it.

"Look at you," she scolded. "You're a disgrace on this family! At least now that you're home your outward appearance reflects what you are!"

Nathan sipped from his bourbon, raised the glass up for his mother to see then unleashed all of the tormented discord inside him by pitching the glass at the fireplace. Its shattering earned him silence but more disapproving glowers from the infuriated matriarch. Finished with the verbal lashing, he grabbed the bottle of bourbon and headed upstairs to get away from her, muttering under his breath how good it was to be home.

--------------

The Gordian knot of Noah Bennet's life tightened like a noose around his throat with each passing day he and Claire stayed in New York. It was passed time that they left and that was precisely what he intended on doing once he located her. The longanimity of fatherhood allowed him to tolerate his daughter's whims and obstinate behaviors but he'd finally had had enough. It was time to collect Claire and return to Texas.

Taking his cell phone from the table where Claire had sat prior to their argument, he pressed the speed dial number for his Haitian associate.

"It's Bennet," he said tersely when the Haitian answered. "I know she's at the Petrelli Mansion. I'm going to let her stay for a few hours while you and I conduct some business in Brooklyn. Meet me in an hour."

He hung up, thought for a brief moment then dialed the number of a failsafe member of the camarilla he belonged to.

It was time to cut the Gordian knot in half.

--------------

The day ebbed on like a thirsty man crawling across the desert and while the limpid Elle still dozed, Peter found his mind too jammed with worry to join her in the small luxury. His hand lazily but compassionately traced down her bare midriff as he concentrated so hard his head hurt. With all the powers he was discovering that he possessed, would it be unreasonable to believe that detecting conception might be one of them? He focused harder, trying to feel the multiplying cells of brand new life being formed within the womb.

_Are you there, baby? I know it's too soon but if you are, I'd like to know!_

The responsibility of a newborn would be colossal for an amnesiac still trying to piece his own life together but the noblesse oblige of his breeding instilled inside him was one thing that could not be forgotten. He would do the right thing and ask Elle to marry him so their child could have the benefit of a present mother and father. The neophyte parents would not receive a Petrelli blessing; judging from everything he could remember this tiding would serve to worsen his pillory status in the family. He didn't care. He would consign himself to a life of poverty, forsaking the benefits of being a member of a prestigious elite family, to have this baby. It was the right thing.

He pictured the ruly family's introduction to the rambunctious Elle and the numerous disapproving lectures he would take delivery of in secret from each individual Petrelli while Elle ignorantly chatted with the others in a separate room. There was no way in hell that they would accept her and it stung his heart. Would they then choose to turn their backs entirely on him as well? Would they not want his child to be a part of their lives? All he could hope for was that everyone tolerated each other and accepted Elle and the baby as vital pieces of the family, or at least of _his_ family.

Elle squirmed backwards against him and he gently rubbed his thumb over the hollow of her navel, imagining what it would be like to feel the swell of pregnancy there rather than the concavity of implied virtue. This entire day found him agitated and hoping that his precognitive ability would kick in at any given point to produce a clue on whether or not Elle was truly pregnant.

_I want to know! I _need_ to know, damn it!_

Part of why he had a frantic need to know was obviously because of the undefined hostility with Grace Moriarty. Terrified of the consequences brought on by an unknown wrong he committed against her, he did not want Elle or his possible child to suffer for a mistake he made. He needed to track Grace down and hoped that her grievance with him could be resolved diplomatically. It was his only shot at securing amity for his potential future family. Goddamn the prescient drawing! Why couldn't it function when he wanted it to?!

Then he recalled the news article on the back of the picture of him and Nathan from the paper. It was about Gabriel "Sylar" Gray, the man who was missing but entangled in this mess somehow. Leaning off the edge of the bed, his hand felt around blindly on the floor for his borrowed jeans in search of the clipping. Elle grumbled and stirred again, freezing him temporarily until she calmed. He carefully planted his feet on the floor and sat up, finally locating the article. But when he tried to read it he realized the room was too dark.

"Where are you going?" a crackly, groggy voice questioned as he rose from the bed.

"Out into the kitchen for a while. I'm hungry. Want me to bring back anything for you?"

"Nuh, m'fi-" was all she incoherently muttered before slipping back asleep.

"OK, then," he responded and went into the kitchen.

Alex was no longer on the sofa and had probably either reported to work or went out to run some errands so he finally had the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. Turning on the overhead light and flopping down in one of the white plastic chairs he began to eagerly read what was left of the printed columns on the rear of the brotherly portrait. From what little information he could salvage, Gray lived in Queens, took care of his mother, managed a family-owned clock shop Gray and Sons in Brooklyn…and had one older sister named Grace.

"Fuck!" he proclaimed to himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Could Grace _Gray_ be Grace _Moriarty_?! Explanations surged through his already crowded mind like a locomotive. If he _was_ responsible for the death of Grace Moriarty's younger brother then there would be _no _rescinding an injustice of that magnitude. And now the shoe suddenly was on the other foot as Peter considered how _he_ would've felt if _Nathan_ was murdered and how adamant he would be at seeking to avenge him. His hope was that he wouldn't become homicidal but he understood that the bonds of sibling blood were all but impossible to break.

The idea crossed his mind that if he ventured to the clock shop then perhaps he would be able to find out any information on the Gray family. The address wasn't supplied by the article but one quick leafing through the phone book found on top of the refrigerator gave it to him. He scribbled it down on the scrap of paper found on the table and rushed back into the bedroom to get his clothes. To not risk waking Elle again, he accumulated the strewn clothing and scampered into the bathroom to dress without showering. There was no time to spare, he concluded, as he desired to learn as much as possible, as quickly as possible out of fear that either his amnesia would further deteriorate his mental capacity and he would forget everything or something terrible would happen to someone he cared about as retribution for Gabriel Gray.

Upon leaving the apartment, he confiscated a jacket from the closet to smartly fend off the chilly November air, turned the lock in the door and pulled it securely closed behind him. Once outside the building he searched the pockets of the jacket and his jeans but realized with dismay that he'd left the scrap paper with the address jotted on it in the kitchen on the table. Cursing, he thought hard and was surprised to note that he remembered the street and number without it. But how the hell was he supposed to get there? He didn't think to look at one of the maps at the front of the telephone book and at times like these his amnesia was an honest curse.

Stopping a man who was strolling down the street, he asked and was disgruntled to learn that he would need to take the subway up to Red Hook. He was pointed in the direction in which the station was and, thanking the man, hurriedly walked off.

Whereas his amnesia was a maddening curse, his invisibility further developed into a godsend since he had no money to purchase a MetroCard with. Slipping over the turnstiles without detection, he boarded the train in a sparsely occupied car and sat, rematerializing when nobody was paying attention to avoid being mistakenly sat upon. During the ride, he upturned the collar of the jacket and tried to conceal as much of his face behind it that he could to minimize the risk of being recognized, knowing that by doing so he appeared either guilty or cold. It was to his advantage that the day actually _was_ chilly. Slumped over in his seat and eyes averted to the grimy floor, Peter prayed that he remained as subtle in presence as humanly possible.

His stop came quicker than he anticipated and he was thankful to exit the train, sighing deeply to relish the crisp air like an inmate finally free after years of imprisonment. Now he still was clueless on which direction the shop was in so he needed to stop and ask someone else. As luck would have it, the shop was only five blocks east of the subway stop. Thanking the man for his help, he began walking as fast as he could in the correct direction.

The exercise, he expected, would probably make his already aching body feel better but it served to weaken him which in turn frustrated him. How could he accomplish what he needed to if his body was going to fall ill? There was too much that needed to be done without needing to lie in bed and recuperate from a cold.

_I have to do this! I have to be strong! I can't let anything prevent me from making things right! My family needs me to do this! What good am I if I can't protect them, even if I can't remember anything about them? I have to try! Everything depends on it! My new family will depend on it!_

Then there it was: the unassuming clock shop Gray and Sons. From the outside, it was like any ordinary shop only dark and lifeless inside. Strolling to the main front window, he gawked inside, his hands cupped over his eyes to shield them from the reflective glare of the sun. The interior of the musty little shop was dead and Peter's heart dropped with disappointment. Had someone been at work inside then he could've asked a few questions, namely whether or not Grace Moriarty was in fact Grace Gray and the estranged sister of Gabriel.

Out of habitual force and for the hell of it, he tried the door knob and was taken aback when the door clicked open. A quick survey of the area behind him showed that nobody was around so he furtively slipped inside, a little bell above the door jingling as he shut it tightly behind him.

"Hello?" he called loud enough to rouse anyone further in the shop. "Is anybody here? Hello?"

There was no answer save for the steady and overlapped ticking of the many clocks hung on the surrounding walls. He walked deeper, fingers tracing whatever objects he passed, until he arrived at a desk larger than the others. It must've been Gabriel's. Pulling the chair out, he sat at the desk and assessed the instruments of trade left on its top with interest. What a lackluster, tedious form of employment this must've been; Peter imagined sore, tired eyes and cramped neck resulting from it.

Yet a hospice nurse's work couldn't be any better, what with the stress and anticipation of losing someone he'd grown to know and love at any given moment. There must've been a passel of psychiatric appointments under his belt that he was not currently aware of. He pondered how he dealt with tragedy on a daily basis and if he would ever be able to go back to it when he returned to his normal life. Being surrounded by a taste of death these last few days made him unsure if he had the heart for the work after all.

Then who was he to evaluate Gabriel Gray's work so negatively? Maybe the man found enjoyment in his work. Or maybe he didn't; visions of a crazed watchmaker searching for a certain greatness because his real work sentenced him to boredom rather than provided him with glory plundered Peter's head and he wondered what sort of man lay behind the manqué abomination known as Sylar.

If Grace Moriarty was in fact his sibling then her celebrity was what might've propelled him into his bloody rampage. Elle said that Sylar murdered countless numbers of people with special capabilities so he could rob them of their gifts with a voracious appetite for their brains as well as their power and that the missing man Hiro saved the day by killing the maniac with a sword. So far Peter knew he had the fatidic endowment of drawing the future, just as Isaac Mendez clearly had. He also had the powers of invisibility, telekinesis, rapid tissue regeneration, mind reading and the recently uncovered capability of flight. His heart sank when he wondered if he was like Sylar since he had this plethora of powers, at least one similar to that of another's, and if he stole them in the shared grisly method as Sylar did. If so, then it meant he killed Isaac and god knew who else. Yet despite the doubt playing in his mind, he couldn't believe himself to be a killer; he didn't feel like one and his current actions taken to save and help proved contrary.

With all the abilities he owned, it struck Peter that maybe he was a kind of source for these powers. Whereas everyone except Sylar had a single power, he was multifarious in his abilities so was it plausible to believe that Sylar could've been out to murder him to accumulate everything in one shot? He sighed and dropped his head to the desk, annoyed at the surge of never ending questions that always went unanswered. Confabulation of the gaps in what he knew was not acceptable. He needed to know the truth for once.

"Just one answer is all I ask for!" he cried aloud. "Just _one_!"

The bell above the door abruptly tinkled, indicating that someone else had just entered the shop. Heart slamming wildly into his chest, Peter sprang up from the desk as a definitive female form stepped from the shadow. He was in complete disbelief at who had come to join him in the fuliginous solitude of the clock shop.

"Well, well!" Grace Moriarty sneered histrionically. "Peter Petrelli. I finally make your most _elusive_ acquaintance."

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**Author's Note:** As I presently battle a nasty case of bronchitis and pray with every fibre of my being that it doesn't turn into pneumonia, I would like to thank my loyal readers and reviewers, who help inspire me and make this story possible. Keep reading and I'll gladly keep writing. Also, no thanks in part to my ignorance about how FF.N's private messaging works, my offer for the magazine signed by Hayden fell by the wayside (since, it had been bequeathed to the home of a sweetheart of a girl who'd never had the chance to personally meet Hayden). The good news is, I am planning something else to make up for it as an apology but it will be sometime next month before I let you in on details. I ask for your patient and generous forgiveness for my mistake and hope it hasn't soured me in your eyes.


	9. Issue 9

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"Most parents aren't even aware of how often they compare their children.... Comparisons carry the suggestion that specific conditions exist for parental love and acceptance. Thus, even when one child comes out on top in a comparison she is left feeling uneasy about the tenuousness of her position and the possibility of faring less well in the next comparison."  
--Marianne E. Neifert

Chapter 9

"I'm afraid I'm at a disadvantage," Peter forthrightly but slyly bided for time. "I don't know who _you_ are."

The celebrity smugly grinned and demanded, "Don't play this game with me, Petrelli. You _know_ who I am."

"I swear I don't. I don't know what's going on. I barely know my own name. I'm suffering from amnesia."

"_Suffering?_ Ironic choice of words. Nevertheless, it's a convenient story you fabricate and I'm so tired of stories and games."

"I'm not lying if that's what you mean! _I_ _don't_ know _anything_!"

"Then you are the dictionary's picture reference for ignorance is bliss. Do you really think that I'm stupid enough to believe you know nothing when you're sitting at my dead brother's desk?"

"Please, listen to me," Peter begged, raising his hands to demonstrate that he was weapon-free and intended no harm. "I came here because the only thing I _do_ know is that _somehow_ your brother's life is connected with mine. I think I might have done something terrible to him but I'm not sure. I'm trying to figure things out. Sit with me. Maybe we can work this out together."

"Allow me to refresh your memory. You _killed_ my Gabriel, you little bastard, and it's time for you to pay your debt for taking away the only person who ever mattered to me."

Peter heard the crackle of electricity and, terrified, saw bolts of blue and white current forking and twisting inside Grace's palm, confirming his suspicion that he was not the only person with extraordinary abilities. The little amnesiac needed to appease this justifiably livid woman and the minatory electricity waiting to do its damage with fast, carefully formed words to.

"I want to make peace, I swear! I didn't come here looking for a fight! I don't _want_ to fight you! I just want to make amends!"

"You certainly epitomise naïve beauty, Peter Petrelli. The only acceptable way you can amend what you've done is to die. An eye for an eye and all that type of business."

The bolt of lightning shot from Grace's hand, narrowly missing Peter as he scampered for refuge behind the book shelf near the destroyed desk he had been sitting at seconds before. Pages alight by fire from the electricity fluttered down amid the ashes of documents and desk remnants as Grace stepped farther into the shop.

"_I don't want to fight you!_" Peter reiterated in desperation, wanting to spare this enraged sibling the truth as he knew it. "There _has_ to be another solution to this!"

"I don't _want_ another solution! I want you to _die_!"

A second blast of lightning nearly decapitated Peter but the young nurse dove from behind the splintering bookcase and sought new shelter along the side of a second desk. The stink of ozone choked the air and sickened him for he associated it with his impending death.

"_Please!_" he begged. "I have people who _care_ about me! A family of my own! I can't die! My child will need me!"

This statement piqued the sadistic woman's interest and she paused her homicidal intent.

"A family? _You_ have a _family_?"

"There's a girl who's carrying my baby! She needs me! Please don't do this! Find mercy in your heart to spare me! Don't make my child fatherless before it's born! It hasn't done anything to you!"

"Its father murdered my brother!"

Panic loosened his tongue and Peter felt there was no other option as the truth streamed from his mouth:

"Your brother was a monster! He _had_ to die!"

Grace shrieked with rage, slammed her hand down and the floor became an electrified death trap. Peter saw the ocean of deadly currents rolling toward him but wasn't fast enough to move out of harm's way. He screamed with all the capacity in his lungs as the indescribable agony of electrocution pierced his thin frame. The force of the voltage convulsed his body and froth dribbled from the corners of his mouth as his muscles seized and the skin frayed away from charring flesh.

The binary choice of remaining passive and dying or fighting to survive posed itself to Peter. Faces of the known loved ones from his forgotten life took shape in his mind: Claire, Nathan, Elle, and the tentative face of a baby; his baby with Elle. Then, in one odd lucid moment, he recalled that he too possessed super powers and, rejuvenated, telekinetically catapulted an enormous clock from the wall across the room to strike Grace against the side of the head. It was enough to divert her from carrying out the intended execution and cease the creation of electricity, giving Peter the chance to crawl deeper into the shop with the hope of finding an exit at the rear.

His wounds tickled and itched as they sewed up but his body simultaneously weakened as he struggled then collapsed hard against the bare floor. Survival instinct compelled him to proceed on his belly but another bolt found its mark on his left calf, setting the leg of his jeans afire. Howling with pain, he stamped his leg against the floor but when that didn't work he patted the fire out with his hands, blistering the palms severely.

_I'm not going to make it! She's going to kill me!_

"Are you playing hide and seek with me, Peter?" taunted Grace maniacally in a falsetto voice as if she was speaking to a child. "Come out, Peter! I just want to give you a little jolt! Put a spark of life back into you, jog your memory!" Her voice instantly switched to a queenly command as she added, "I promise it'll hurt like hell!"

Too vulnerable in his current state, Peter switched on his invisibility, hoping it would afford him an advantage while he slinked across the dusty hardwood floor. Unable to see him, Grace covered all possibilities by sending a blitzkrieg of electricity throughout the shop that fried and scorched everything it touched. Somewhere another fire erupted and Peter choked on the dark smoke even though he was below it. The overhead sprinklers turned on, showering water down over the room as the fire alarm clamoured its knife-like wail.

_I'm going to die in here! Oh god, _please_ don't let me die! Help me!_

"Come on, you little freak!" japed Grace. "Be a man! Show yourself! Accept your fate!"

As if obedient to her expectation, he lost control of his invisibility which dangerously exposed him to her again. Spotting him, she decided to conserve her electricity because of its detrimental combination with the water, stomped forward, grabbed him by the jacket collar and hoisted him up off the floor. Peter whimpered in equal amounts of surprise and agony when his clothing brushed against his open injuries and electrical burns. Grace's long fingers securely wrapped around his throat and pressed him almost seductively against the wall where the sprinkler above them wasn't working. His terror-widened hazel eyes found her other hand raising up, sparks zinging ominously from her finger tips.

"Don't do this!" he gasped. "Please! I'll do anything!"

Preferring to listen to shrieking rather than grovelling, Grace seized his crotch and sent a reticulate web of electricity dancing over his groin. Peter screamed until his handsome face contorted and turned red, the muscles twitching violently; the evil bitch took sick pleasure in it.

"You procreate after taking my brother's life? You think you can win over my sympathies because you impregnated some little bitch? How _dare_ you be so insolent?" She eased off with the electricity in favour of acrimoniously kissing him, pinching his lower lip hard enough between her teeth to draw blood. "Know this, pretty Peter Petrelli. After I eliminate you, I will hunt down each member of your family, everyone who's ever meant anything to you, and they will fry beneath the palm of my hand in a slow, horrible death."

Beyond Grace's crazed imprecation, Peter managed to hear a distant thought that he was not at all expecting to hear, a voice that served as a beacon of hope and renewal of strength inside him.

_It's around here _somewhere_, I know it is! What if he's hurt? I need to find him before something bad happens!_

Elle! She was near enough for his mind reading skill to tune into what she was thinking. That meant she was probably mere feet away, just outside the shop and unaware of the eminent threat inside.

Grace attempted another electrocution but with a volatile telekinetic punch Peter busted off the broken sprinkler above him, bringing a rain of water spraying down upon them. When the wetness met Grace's self-manufactured electricity the shock produced sent the screeching woman sailing backwards and crashing through a small case containing instruments of the Gray family trade where she didn't move. Free from her hold, Peter toppled to the floor again, inspired to push himself harder toward the exit. Debris from their battle lay strewn about the path to the front door but it was too far and he was too weak to make it any way. He would risk it and head out through the proposed back exit, trusting that once Elle saw the fire and the destruction inside she would be smart enough to stay out rather than be foolish enough to enter in search of him. With the last bit of mustered strength, he lunged for the back door and torpedoed through, stumbling to the pavement outside.

Back inside, Grace groaned and rose from where she landed, shaking the pain and the glass from her body. Glancing around the shop, she became frustrated that she could not locate her prey. Then she coughed and her eyes fell upon the expanding fire; Petrelli must've somehow escaped, leaving her to die in the blaze like the credible hero he was. Pissed, she stalked through the flames, uncaring of what consequences it would yield, and shoved a pretty young blond thing out of her way after she staggered outside.

"Hey!" the girl squeaked crossly. "Watch where you're going! Bitch!"

Grace granted the audacious girl leeway as she reached into her pocket for her cell phone, dialing 911 to report the fire. The last thing she wanted was her brother's precious business to burn to cinder, even if it had been an aid in his death.

In the meantime, Elle identified Grace and quickly piped down, shrinking tactfully into the background.

_Peter must be in there! Fuck!_

Backing down the street in the direction she came in and away from the celebrity who frantically spoke into her phone, Elle took a sharp intake of breath when an invisible Peter wrapped his arm around her.

"Take me away from here," he requested, leaning heavily against her. "I'm hurt and I need a safe place to heal."

Elle muttered a furtive OK, supporting him as he limped lamely alongside her while she guided him a few blocks away to a small park. They tumbled to the grass like dead weight, Peter groaning miserably. His invisibility lifted and she saw the extent of his injuries. The damage was extensive and hideous: electrical burns peppered his delicate face and hands, burnt skin and raw flesh that hurt her just by looking at it. A large hole in the left calf of his jeans exposed the worst injury of all: the blackened and skinless burn that resembled a charcoal pit.

"Oh my god!" she exclaimed. "She fucked you up big time!"

"I'll be fine," he assured. "Look. I'm healing now."

His body was on the mend and Elle was mystified to watch his physical perfection restore itself at the slowest rate it ever had before.

"It's happening _really_ slowly," she pointed out.

"Maybe because I haven't been feeling well lately," he huffed breathlessly. "All that matters is that it's healing."

"She almost killed you."

"Yeah, she almost did. But she didn't."

Elle threw her arms around him and wept against his neck.

"I don't know what I would do if I lost you, Dave! I'm not ready for that yet!"

"You were what kept me alive, Elle. You and…"

Instead of finishing, he dropped his hand to her tummy and gently stroked.

"I might _not_ be, Peter," she reminded him softly, wiping away her fallen tears. "It's too soon to know for sure."

"I know, I know. But…"

"It's still early and you're anxious and overeager. I just don't want you to be disappointed."

He considered what she said then nodded and kissed her forehead.

"Fair enough," he whispered amicably.

"Your wounds finished healing. Are you sure you're OK?"

"Yeah. Just still a little weak."

"Maybe you should go to a doctor."

He shook his head.

"I don't think that would be wise. We both agreed on that a while ago, remember? Besides, I'm sure it's only a cold or the flu. I'll be fine in a week."

"You'd better be."

"How did you know where I was?"

She shrugged. "Maybe I'm your guardian angel. Or maybe you should've taken the address to where you were going along with you."

"You shouldn't have followed me, Elle. Things have gotten too dangerous. I want to keep you and Alex safe. Especially you."

"Yeah? And I'd like an official Red Ryder carbine action 200-shot range model air riffle for Christmas but I'd just shoot my eye out."

Another pop culture reference lost on him, Peter gave the smile of a bemused person who was embarrassed that he wasn't included on the joke then simply called her silly in response.

"Oh, Christ, Dave," she griped, "don't tell me you don't know _A Christmas Story_ either! The kid who got his tongue stuck to the flag pole? The leg lamp? You look like a pink nightmare? Wow, whoopee, a zeppelin? Sons of bitches: Bumpuses? Fra rah rah rah rah? Awww, geez whiz, Dave!"

"Sorry!" he emitted a faint laugh. "I need a dictionary to figure out what you're talking about. What am I going to do with you, Miss Miasnikov?"

"I don't know. Question is what am _I_ going to do with _you_?"

He fell back on the cold ground and it was welcomed against his feverish flesh.

"Are you alright?" Elle asked.

"I don't know if I can make it back, Elle. I don't feel good at all."

"I'll call us a taxi. Did you find out anything from psycho bitch?"

"Grace Moriarty _is_ Grace Gray. She's angry because she blames me for her brother's death. As an added bonus she can create and manipulate electricity. And she threatened to kill me and everyone I love. Including you which means you have to start staying out of this mess, Elle. Even if it means my leaving…"

"No! Don't you _dare_ leave me!"

"I was going to say even if it means my leaving Alex's apartment."

"_Where_ would you go? Peter, you _can't_ leave and it's settled."

Peter struggled to sit up and leant against her needfully. Bound by obligation and loyalty, there was no way he could leave the Miasnikov siblings but he knew he had to work out an alternative before they got hurt or worse. Grace Moriarty Gray proved that she meant business.

"I saw my brother last night," he offered for a switch in conversation.

"You saw Nathan? Where?"

"While I was out walking I found myself at Coney Island. I was on the beach but I saw him on the boardwalk. He was just standing there, looking up at the sky. I think…I think he was looking for _me_."

"I told you it was _you_ that fell out of the sky. And I told you that with all the things you can do that flying _had_ to be one of them."

"But what _happened_ to me? If you found me in such a ravaged condition, _what_ _happened_?"

"There was an explosion in the sky just before I found you."

"What would _I_ have to do with an _explosion_?"

"I have no clue, Dave."

"I bet _Nathan_ knows what happened. He _has_ to. He was there. Don't you understand what that means? He _loves_ me. He _wants_ me back. Seeing him was like a fog lifting from my eyes because he was there looking for me, Elle. I _know_ it. I could _feel_ it in my blood. It was like his blood was _calling_ to mine."

Peter's eyes wetted with emotion, his pupils dilating to enormous proportions with sentiment. Yes, he may have been robbed of memories of Nathan but the brotherly bond was undeniably unbreakable.

"He was _beautiful_, Elle," Peter reminisced, his voice reflecting the dream state he was in. Old feelings of affection for Nathan swelled his idolizing heart while he spoke. "He was so polished and dignified even though he looked like he'd been through hell. His appearance was tousled but he was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. So put together and full of confidence."

"He's full of _something_ alright."

Her cynical vandalism of his brotherly optimism added hellfire to Peter's eyes as he glared at her, repulsed. How could he make her comprehend that shared blood was the strongest bond in existence, even if parts of it _was_ bad? Surely she was completely aware of that, what with her strong connection with her own brother. What made it inconceivable that Nathan was close to him in that same blood tie? Catching a glimpse of Nathan on that pier brought forth a consanguineous summon; his brother's blood _did_ call to him through the bleakness of amnesia and his own blood was prepared to answer.

"Nathan is a good man," he defended vehemently but without foundation to do so. "I don't need to have any memory to know that. He's my _brother_. I'd be lucky if I turn out to be anything like him."

An uncomfortable silence befell them and though Peter stood strong on his viewpoint about Nathan he felt remorse for coming down so hard on Elle. She was merely trying to protect him, even if the young nurse believed it a backwards effort. _Nathan_ wasn't the one he needed to be safeguarded from. It was Grace Gray.

"Hey," he said tenderly when he saw the wounded expression on her face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you like that."

"It's OK," she responded in a small voice.

"No, it's not. I can't help it. I know you think Nathan is at fault for whatever happened to me and that my family has disowned me because I'm some black sheep. Maybe you're right. But it's ridiculous to think that Nathan and our mom wouldn't love me just because I don't know which fork to use with salads or how to tie bow ties."

"For the record, Pete, I don't think that's why your family disowned you. I think it's way deeper than salad forks and bow ties."

He sighed and took her hand into his, stroking her palm with his thumb.

"First things first. Right now the only jeopardy we're in is from Grace Moriarty or Gray or whatever her name is," he reminded. "Not from my family. So we need to focus on the trouble at hand and worry about the other stuff when it collides with us."

"Agreed." She squeezed his hand warmly. "How about I call that taxi now to get you back home and in bed?"

"Best idea today."

--------------------

Huffing and out of breath, Claire found herself at the doorstep of Petrelli Mansion yet again but without any direction for what she wanted to say to her estranged grandmother. The last thing she wanted was put the man who raised her as his own in any worse of a light in the most critical of the Petrelli eyes. Rethinking her motives for being there now that she arrived, she hesitated to ring the bell and instead kicked a small rock that found its way on the porch.

In debate about ringing the doorbell, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other then hopped back down the steps, sitting with a resigned groan. Why did her life have to be so damned complicated? She was too young for the weight of this responsibility. Raising up, she skipped down the rest of the steps and ambled around the corner to the side of the mansion, pausing only as a squirrel dodged her unwary foot. Trudging through the yard, she reached the back and it was then when she stopped short.

Someone was sitting alone in one of the chairs at the table, drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey. With the sloppy state of dress and slouched posture her first impression was that he was a homeless person and a brief pang of fear pierced her. Then the man reached behind him for something lying on the table behind him, exposing a decent view of his handsomely chiselled profile to the cheerleader. It felt as if her breath was ripped from her lungs by a surge of heat. Nuclear heat to be precise.

"_Dad_?" she addressed in disbelief.

The word wasn't one Nathan expected to hear. Nevertheless he turned completely around to find his biological daughter behind him.

"Claire?"

Without waiting for any further preface she charged across the distance between them and threw her arms around him, surprising them both as she squeezed him furiously for a frozen moment. But the most important matter that occurred to her was that of her beloved uncle.

"Where's Peter?"

Nathan did not answer; instead a gloomy shadow was cast over his face.

"Where's Peter?" Claire asked twice, more forcefully.

This time Nathan spoke but it wasn't what she wanted to hear.

"I don't know, Claire. I don't know where Peter is."

Claire frowned.

"What do you mean you _don't know_? How can you _not_ know? You were _with_ him! What did you _do_ to him?"

"I didn't _do_ anything," he said vapidly despite her increasing anguish. "That's the problem. I didn't do _anything_."

Nathan's eyes reflected distance as if looking through time itself as he reviewed the tragic events of that night.

Peter's glowing hands and increasing radioactivity, Claire pointing the gun to end his life, everyone bracing themselves for inevitable death when Peter detonated, then Nathan swooping down to wrap Peter into his arms and their fiery exodus into the night sky. He and Peter traveled so far up that the air thinned out and it was difficult to breathe. Idealistically he meant to drop his brother into the East River where the water could douse the nuclear inferno Peter became, hopefully soothing him enough to start the healing process.

His baby brother objected to this sacrifice. He begged Nathan to save himself now that the city was safe, demanding to be released and let him carry the burden of circumstance alone. Of course Nathan protested, telling Peter that he would rather they die together than live apart. But Peter had other ideas and struggled against his brother's embrace.

_I don't want to kill you, Nathan! It's all pointless if I kill the one person who matters most to me. Let me go!_

He refused and Peter fought against him. The stronger he made his grip the more persistent and slippery Peter became until he broke the hold around him.

_Peeeeterrrrrr! Noooooo!!!!_

The prophesied explosion lit up the night sky and Nathan escaped the billowing cloud of devastation by the skin of his teeth. What was left of Peter plummeted down, lost in the darkness beneath the choking smoke and obliterating fire. He'd spent hours aimlessly but frantically hunting for him on land or waiting for him to be washed up on the beach by the tide. Peter _had_ to be out there somewhere. Nathan just didn't know where and he vowed that he would not leave the coast until he found his little brother.

_I promised to bring him home safely! It was my brotherly duty to make sure of it! I failed him! I failed our family!_

Many relentless hours were spent searching until he wandered to the Coney Island boardwalk. Denegation was no longer an option. Peter was dead and he was to blame, just as his mother indicted.

Blinded by tears he adamantly refused to spill in front of his daughter, he shook his head, not looking at her but down at his feet. Pride wouldn't let him face her as a failure, not after the authoritative image he impressed upon her from day one.

"I don't know where he is," he continued, softer and more broken. "We need to at least find his body…"

"Listen to me," she said firmly, bravely because she knew his current inability to do so. "We _can't_ give up hope. Peter's still alive."

"You didn't see it, Claire. There is no way he survived that; the explosion and then the fall had to be the coup de grace."

"No, _listen_ to me! Peter is still alive and I know it. _I _know_ it!_"

"Claire…"

"My dad said he was told about something falling from the sky and crashing in Brooklyn. They say it's a meteor but it happened right after the explosion. It's been all over the news but nobody knows exactly what it was because nothing was there when the police arrived. It _has_ to be Peter!"

But Nathan shook his head mournfully.

"It was _me_ that they reported, Claire. _I_ came from the sky too. The blast nearly _knocked_ me out of the sky but I managed to land off of Coney Island."

Claire was persistent in making him understand.

"A girl is wanted for questioning because she left the scene with a person who was badly injured. This didn't happen in Coney Island. It was on Brighton Beach."

Nathan was silent, trying to digest what he was being told.

"That's why I came back," she said, unrelenting though her voice wavered. "I _had_ to! My dad talks like Peter's dead. I come here and it's no different. Everyone's given up and accepted that he's gone but _I_ _can't_ do that! I _can't_ give up hope that he's still out there needing us to find him while we all wallow in our self-pity instead of _doing_ something! Don't _you_ dare give up on him too! I _won't_ let you! _I _won't_ let you!_"

Nathan peered up at Claire and the warm paternal instincts he didn't think he had for her made him want to clutch his daughter near and solace her. But pride is a stubborn thing that renders one cold even when they are not.

Weeping openly, the frustrated girl plopped in the chair next to him without uttering another word. His guilt went unchecked. She was his daughter and he hated seeing her like this. As the parent, he should've been stronger. It was his obligation but it was also his privilege. Yet he found himself unable.

"Go inside. Get something to drink and lie down," Nathan softly instructed. "You look like you haven't slept in weeks. Don't worry about Peter. My reach may be significantly shorter now but I have a hunch where I can go for help."

Claire stared at her biological father with delirious interest, suddenly aware of the exhaustion she'd been staving off since the explosion and that her body felt like unmoveable lead because of it.

For the first time since her arrival, Nathan gazed at his daughter, who was taken aback by his worn face and bloodshot eyes.

"Go," he demanded more firmly. "Trust me."

Her face scrunched with indignation and she disputed, "How can I trust you after the lies…"

"Now is not the time. We'll wipe the slate clean. This time we both want the same thing. We both want Peter home safe. Go in and get your rest. Leave everything else to me."

He took a swig from the bottle of whiskey, one that was too long and too much for her liking so she complied with his order just to get him out of her sight.

--------------------

Still seething in anger about Archer's rejection and her lost battle with Peter Petrelli, Grace returned to the hotel, making certain she befouled everything electronic on her way through the lobby. It gave some satisfaction to hear the desk clerk complain to a co-worker that his computer was acting up accompanied by the several successive frustrated clicks of the mouse then bangs on the monitor. The lights flickered and other people shook their iPods or cell phones, all met with equal satisfaction in the movie star. The only time she put her power in check was when she reached the elevators. The last thing she wanted was to trap herself in a stuffy car because of some bull-headed, lovesick detective.

The thought of Archer spawned another tantrum along with a power surge that sent the elevators grinding and moaning. The sounds jolted her from her self-righteousness and her temper promptly cooled. All she wanted to do was escape from the world in a mass of bed sheets and cool darkness and strategise her next move. She helped the elevator arrive faster by giving it an extra oomph with her power and was thankful that she was the only one on it until she reached her floor.

The maid who was cleaning a recently vacated room greeted her hello but she ignored her and continued to her own room, looping the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob outside. Not bothering to remove anything except her shoes, she crawled into bed like a sick person suffering from a debilitating flu and hid beneath the blankets. She wasn't still a moment before there was a thunderous knock on the door.

Groaning, she took no notice of it, wishing it away. Yet it didn't. The second knock was annoying enough for her to release a bellowing, "Go the fuck away!"

The visitor became more persistent and knocked harder still.

"Goddamn it!" she roared, throwing back the blankets and stomping injudiciously to the door. "It says Do Not Disturb! What is your fucking problem?! I'll have your job for this, you third…"

When she swung it open her speech halted upon noticing that it wasn't the maid who was pestering her after all. Instead there was a mousy man with greasy dark hair, a manila envelope in his hand and a telltale Nikon around his neck. This was not a good sign, she summed up with her plenitude of experience.

"Ms Moriarty?" he addressed.

"Yes. Who the hell are you?"

"I think you may want to invite me in for this."

Grace glowered wickedly at the homunculus, taking several uneasy seconds to decide whether whatever he had to say was worth her valuable time. Nodding, she stepped aside to allow him in.

"Don't make me ask who you are again," she advised, shutting the door behind them.

"I'm Dale Samuels," he introduced, extending his free hand to offer it in a handshake that she denied with a scowl. "I work for the _Hollywood Spoiler_…"

"I _knew_ it was one of those rags. Why should I waste my time talking to _you_? _What_ can you possibly have to say that I would _need_ to hear?"

"It's not what you need to hear that should concern you. More like what you need to _see_."

The envelope which she eyed suspiciously was handed to her.

"What's this?" she questioned, taking it.

Opening it, she found several photographs inside. Removing them, her heart filled with rage when she saw the incriminating images of her and Archer getting cosy in the hotel bar and kissing in Isaac's loft. Instantly she recalled the man in the hallway outside the loft crime scene and the flash of light as she entered the elevator.

"Damn it!" she vented. "It was _you_ outside the loft. _You!_"

"And you didn't give me so much as a second look."

"What do you want from me?"

"Two million dollars."

"Is that all?"

Samuels shrugged and, the sarcasm lost on him, answered, "It covers my debts."

"So you go around and take asinine shots of people in compromising positions and blackmail them to get you out of _your_ compromising positions?"

"No, not of _people_. Of _celebrities_ who think they are above the rest of us."

"I see."

"You can keep those as a reminder of your mistake and your predicament. I have plenty of copies safe and sound at an undisclosed location. If I do not have the money transferred to my bank account within two days these will be leaked to more outlets than the _Hollywood Spoiler_."

"Is that right?"

"I promise you, I may be a blackmailer but I'm no liar. Isn't that the basis of your fear? That I'm honest enough to show the public what you try to hide? I'm sure Detective Archer's wife will be interested in knowing. What's her name? Rebecca?"

Mention of Archer's wife stiffened the actress's body; Samuels noticed and smiled with discretion. But Grace caught the smile and seethed hotter than a furnace. Rather than taking the little snake's life outright in her room where she was sure to draw attention, she walked to the desk beside the bed and scribbled something on the pad of paper then ripped it off and presented it to the extortionist.

"Meet me here tomorrow," she instructed. "We'll sort through the arrangements. Bring every copy that you have and I mean _every_ copy. I am _not_ someone you want to cross."

The weasel gazed at the paper as if was an alien concept before taking it from her. He seemed to have lost his nerve considerably.

"I don't trust you," he told her, distrustful hints in his wary expression.

"Good. You shouldn't. And the feeling's mutual. Now get the hell out."

The paparazzo couldn't back out of the room fast enough. It was just as well: Grace restrained herself until she was turning red to not launch a lightning bolt at his back.

--------------------

Like a pair of butterfly wings Peter's eyes fluttered open but he squinted in the light emitting from the lamp in the bedroom. He tried to think of when the lamp had been on previously but couldn't think of one. Elle stood at the full length mirror adjacent to the bed, examining her bare midriff in a profiled stance. Her hand brushed over her stomach lightly and he quivered with affection when she stuffed a pillow under her shirt to mimic late pregnancy. He watched her pose and inspect how she looked for a few moments, heart brimming with happiness as she turned one way then the next.

"Looks good on you," he muttered with tender bias.

As if guilty of a heinous crime, she whirled around, tossing the pillow on the bed at his feet.

"I'm just…curious," she excused.

"Looked great."

She smiled and sat on the bed, putting the pillow in her lap and fretfully toying with its corner.

"Think so?" she asked.

"Very much."

The pillow, humorously flung at him, struck him square in the face.

"I'm scared, Peter," she sombrely confessed. "I don't even know what I would tell Alex. He'll definitely hate you again. Might even burn the bed. Can't blame him for it either. Think of it: would _you_ want to sleep in the same bed where your sister conceived? Eww."

Peter's thick eye brows arched upwards with amusement.

"I just hope we're not _in_ the bed if he burns it," he joked.

"Peter!"

"OK, OK! You have a point," he declared. "But we'll deal with Alex's reaction when or if the time comes. We need to take one thing at a time. When will you be able to take a test?"

"In a few days. I'm not late yet."

"With everything bad that's been happening…this is actually refreshing. It won't be _all_ bad news if you're pregnant. One of us is right about my relationship with my family and if it's you, at least this baby will be a good thing for me to look forward to."

"I'll be honest. I have mixed feelings about it, Peter. I'm scared to death. I'm too young and not ready. Plus I'm not rich, you can't remember anything, some lunatic is out to kill you and you have all these cool super powers while I'm just a Muggle. What if the baby is like you? How are we going to raise a baby with super powers? What the hell does all of this mean for us or for our baby if there is one?"

Remorse stifled Peter like a heavy narcotic. The girl didn't ask for any of this. Her only crime was being a Good Samaritan who tried to do the right thing for someone in need. Now her life was in peril and there was a probability that he impregnated her in one weak moment of need.

"It means we have to live and work hard at everything."

"_Why_ did I touch you when I knew I was _ovulating_?!"

The frustration in her voice further pained him and he sat up, reaching out for her. She easily sank against him, finding the perfect spot on his shoulder that cradled her head then wept.

"Everything will be fine," he muttered sweetly. "We shouldn't worry about it until we know for sure. We don't need added pressure."

"Easy for _you_ to say!" she spat with a tincture of animosity. "_You_ won't be the one going through thirty-eight hours of labor!"

"I would if I could, Elle."

"You're just saying that because you know you'll never have to! Life is _not_ fair to us women! _You_ get an orgasm and _I_ get labor pains! I feel like Charlie Brown getting rocks instead of candy on Halloween!"

"Look, your fears are legitimate but I'll have troubles too. The important thing is we'll be going through it together. That's more than some women can say."

He wanted to offer additional comforts but a jagged throb in his head forced him to release her and roll away on his side in the fetal position, groaning in misery.

"What's wrong?" she inquired, afraid by this outburst.

"Sharp pain!" he gasped, holding his head. But the ache raced down his body in a debilitating torment. "Hurts!"

Elle was frantic, the animosity diminishing into worry.

"What should I do?!" she cried, scooting to his side. "I don't know how to care for a super hero's ailments!"

Peter's hand enveloped hers, clutching it tight as he requested, "Please! Just stay with me!"

Elle watched futilely as he suffered, his face reddening as he held his breath in a vain attempt to stave off the pain. A light-headedness engulfed him along with a white light that washed over his eyes until his lungs begged for oxygen. As air was greedily sucked in he was pleased that the pain died out. Inhaling a few more breaths to stabilize himself, he slackened his grip on Elle's hand.

"Sorry," he muttered as he uncurled his body and stretched out flat on his back. "I don't know what my problem is."

Rather than releasing her hand from his hold, he intertwined their fingers as if they were long time lovers, placing hers directly over his heart. A lock of hair fell into his eyes, irritating them until she swiped it away on his behalf.

"Let me fix some lunch," she said softly. "I'll bring you some cold water and a painkiller in case that happens again."

He nodded, kissed the back of her hand and watched as she exited the room. The pillow she used for her mock pregnancy was inches from him and, spying it, he reached over for it then placed it underneath his head, imagining with a satisfied smile that it was Elle's baby-swollen tummy.

The future obligations presenting themselves made Peter consider how Nathan's relationship was with Claire. His memory loss robbed him of more than his personal history; all the memoirs of family were gone as well. How many family events were vanquished, how many holidays? He thought of giving Claire Christmas and birthday gifts and pictured her joyous at what was hidden behind the wrapping paper. He thought of the boring Petrelli parties thrown for their proper young lady when the child graciously smiled at them but longed to have a fun party with friends, loud music and cute boys her own age. Peter hoped that he was the kind of uncle to her that would sneak her away to these preferred parties, parties he arranged to make her happy because he understood her better than the others did.

Nathan didn't impress upon his younger brother that he was open minded in the way that a teenager needed her father to be. Peter loved Nathan but the man was a politician and unlikely to loosen his tie for a wild teenage social event. Nor would he condone to his only child having one. He hoped Nathan was never cruel or harsh to his niece, that the girl was spoilt rotten and had a blissful sheltered life of dolls and teddies, naïve of how the world truly works, a benefit only the wealthy could afford.

Peter wanted to provide that for his baby at least for as long as he was able. He wondered if his child would inherit any of his powers and what raising a child like that would entail. He was curious if Claire or Nathan had powers as he suspected. All he could do was hope for the best and if reconciliation with his family was possible then perhaps they could supply pointers for raising a super baby.

The rattle of flatware and porcelain opened his eyes, finding Elle rejoining him with a tray of sandwiches, fruit and glasses of water in her grasp. He sat up and helped her place the tray on the bed so she could settle down next to him.

"Here you go." She tossed him a bottle of aspirin that he caught with one hand. "Take a couple. It'll help break any fever or infection you might have. I _guess_ it would, any way."

He did as instructed, swallowing the chalky, bitter pills with a swig of water. Elle pitched an apple to him and that was when he realized how hungry he was. He thanked her and they ate in silence and profound thought.

The bedridden hero required more attention than what his young female friend was able to give. She would do her best to act as his nurse, ironic since he was in the health care profession but couldn't recall a damned thing usefull to help himself. A pregnant Elle would need to be nurtured too and his health needed to improve so he could give her that courtesy. With pending tension mounting between the Petrellis and Miasnikovs, he was in dire need to prove himself to both.

--------------------

Reptilicus the fire breather had an ambivalent secret. He wasn't just a freak on the outside with his bizarre tattooed appearance. It wasn't that he was a sexual deviant who indulged in odd fetishes of the flesh either because as Fate would have it, he was as vanilla a lover as they come and grateful that Randi was the same way. Reptilicus was shrouded by a secret that not even his dear Randi knew.

Stepping discreetly into his empty and pitch dark performance area to practise his fire-breathing act, he took a quick glance around to make certain he was alone. Outside on the boardwalk was the usual busy bustle and he didn't want to risk having a nosey viewer spy on him. Squinting, he scruntised intensely the darkness with his keen eyes and when he determined that indeed nobody else was around he did the impossible.

Reptilicus spit a fountain of fire from his throat that bridged across the width from his mouth to the torch held in his hand, lighting it and the room up. The burst of volcanic illumination unveiled an-up-to-that-time dark-cloaked face floating a few feet from his own.

"Nice trick," a deepened voice complimented smoothly, startling him. "Like a human dragon. Oh what _I_ could do with _that_!"

Reptilicus did not have the opportunity to respond, but the quizzical expression across his tattooed face spoke volumes in the stead of words. That expression soon transformed from one of shock to one of agony as a razor-sharp, unbearable pain seared across the fire-breather's forehead and all he could hear was the sound of his own screaming.

--------------------

**Author's Note:** Yes, it certainly has been quite a while. A recent review for this story made me realise that I had this chapter waiting to be posted for a very long time, so I spent a few hours editing it yesterday. If you are curious/concerned about what's been going on with my reason for not updating, read my profile page for further details. As an FYI, this story will be second for finishing in that mentioned queue. As always, thanks for your time and readership!


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